


The Prince's Storybook

by cataclysm_dialogue, shatou



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: (it’s Palpatine don’t worry), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Anakin Skywalker, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Fairytale setting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Throne Sex, Top Obi-Wan Kenobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataclysm_dialogue/pseuds/cataclysm_dialogue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a beautiful kingdom, in which a benevolent King and Queen lived with their son, the Prince. One day, a man dressed in white robes and crowned in the first flowers of spring appeared. He asked for the Prince’s hand in marriage...
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 67
Kudos: 204
Collections: SW Especially Satisfying Stories





	1. Chapter 1

_ Once upon a time, there was a beautiful kingdom, in which a benevolent King and Queen lived with their son, the Prince. One day, a man dressed in white robes and crowned in the first flowers of spring appeared. He asked for the Prince’s hand in marriage and the Prince accepted. But there was one who sought to thwart this man and his plans for life, love, and the good of the kingdom. This Dark One sought out the man under the guise of a friend offering advice, only to trap him in an enchantment of evil design. The Queen fell ill soon after, and the kingdom, once bathed in the brightness of the freshest spring, fell into sadness. The man was not seen again, and the King mourned. Unbeknownst to everyone, the man was not a man at all. He— _

\---

“Hah!” Anakin shoots up in bed, uttering the single syllable. He’s soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his forehead as his chest heaves and he tries to get his bearings. He’s completely disoriented, unsure about the dream he just had, trying to remember it clearly as the imagery slips through his fingertips like water through a sieve. The face of the Dark One, the crown of flowers the man clothed in white wore, the smiles of the King and Queen. All so familiar yet foreign to him in some way.

But pondering will have to wait, because Anakin hears a knock at his door and calls for the person outside to enter. It’s one of the many castle servants, and Anakin rolls his eyes a bit fondly as the servant submissively places the tunics in her hands onto Anakin’s bed. 

“Good morning, my Prince,” the servant says, her auburn hair prompting a wave of nostalgia to wash over Anakin. Whence it came he does not know, but he nods his head and then flicks his wrist dismissively. The servant immediately leaves without a word, closing the door quietly behind her. What her name is Anakin can never remember, but it is no matter. He has other things to allocate his energy towards.

Anakin disrobes and pulls on a pair of simple tunics and breeches with riding boots, clothing himself as quickly as he possibly can, not bothering to adjust himself to perfection as his mother, Shmi used to do. He pauses a moment to honor the memory of her, to remember exactly what color her eyes were, and how she used to run her hands through his hair when he was nervous. He always thinks of her in this way, fleeting minutes of sadness when he wonders what things might have been like had she not died of illness several years ago.

Anakin shakes his head to dispel these gloomy thoughts from his head, and exits his room, almost running through the corridors of the castle as he nears his destination: the library. He spends less time there than he should, but today he feels an inescapable pull towards the room, like a red thread of fate tugging at his wrist ever so slightly, urging him to go towards his inevitable destiny. Or maybe he’s just bored. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he swings open the doors and looks around the room that could probably use a dusting or three.

The room is interestingly empty, with no servants performing any duties within it. Naturally, the first thing Anakin does is retrieve a wheeled ladder and climb to the highest, the hardest to reach locations of the room’s vast collection. He peruses the shelves silently as he discovers old books of outdated science, children’s fairytale books, and even a cookbook or two that he chuckles at, vowing to return here at a later date with one of the cooks and bestow one of these books upon them.

_ Anakin.  _

The voice seems to come from within his mind and around his body everywhere at once. It’s a simple whisper of his name, the most basic of greetings, but Anakin has most certainly heard something. He looks around him, but the room remains empty. Deciding it to be a trick of the nonexistent breeze within the dusty room, Anakin shrugs and reaches for a book.

This book has no title. Anakin looks on the front of the cover, on the spine, and then opens it to find the first page devoid of a title as well. There is only a short dedication.

_ To my future friend. _

Puzzled yet intrigued, Anakin turns the first page of the book.

_ Hello there. Welcome. You shall begin here. Begin, you say? Why yes, begin. Although truly, there are no beginnings, as there are no ends. _

Above the words is an image of a man dressed in white robes, crowned with the first flowers of spring, standing with a smile on his face and his hands outstretched. The man has auburn hair and a beard, with gray blue eyes and pale skin. Anakin feels his breath hitch as he looks over the image. But he chides himself mentally. This will be a bizarre children’s fairytale book, nothing more. He almost places it back on the shelf where he found it. But he’s too intrigued. He wants to read more, for some reason. However, reading is not best done atop a ladder, so he closes the book and tucks it under his arm before climbing down.

He exits the library and is quietly closing the door behind him when he suddenly hears a voice that he knows all too well.

“Whatever are you doing, my boy?” The tone is kind, grandfatherly, but with a sharpness to it that Anakin cannot quite qualify. He turns to see his father’s advisor, Sheev Palpatine, looking at him with a curious expression on his face.

“I was just looking around. If I’m going to be king someday, I have to read  _ sometimes _ ,” Anakin jokes. Palpatine has lived with Anakin’s family since before Anakin can remember, so he’s confident he will laugh at Anakin’s little quip. However, he seems preoccupied.

“Indeed,” he says, eyeing the book in Anakin’s hand. “Curious...what have you got there?” And Palpatine extends his hand to Anakin, looking at him with great interest. Anakin holds out the book to him as if under a spell, but doesn’t let go. Suddenly he finds himself very occupied with other thoughts, thoughts of walking back to his room, empty handed, and letting Palpatine have this book that’s likely very silly anyway.

_ Anakin.  _

The partially imagined voice caresses him, whispering in his ear as if someone had very softly come up behind Anakin and put their hands on his shoulders. Anakin shakes his head and starts to withdraw his hand, pulling the book back towards himself. Palpatine’s grip lingers for a second on the leather, his knuckles not quite white as he releases his grip on the book, lifting his eyes to look at Anakin straight on once more.

“I think I should be going," Anakin says, a sudden chill sweeping through the corridor as he speaks. But it is of no consequence; it must be an open window somewhere where the spring breeze has become just a tad bit too aggressive. 

Palpatine doesn’t speak for a moment, eyeing Anakin up and down, then he takes a few steps forward and places a kind hand on Anakin’s shoulder, looking at him as one long-suffering adult might look at a particularly unruly child.

“Surely this book is not part of your studies, my Prince. Let me return it to the library where it belongs, and you can go about your day as planned.” Palpatine smiles at Anakin and begins to reach for the book.

Anakin recoils, pulling away from Palpatine and saying, “I think I’ll be the judge of that, Lord Palpatine.” He doesn’t mean to let venom seep into his voice, and immediately regrets his words when he sees the Advisor’s face fall into contrition.

“My apologies, my Prince. I merely meant-”

“It’s all right, my lord. But I will be keeping this book. Perhaps you should see if my father has need of you.” Anakin is being kind. The Advisor may hold great power, but to oppose the will of the Prince is a punishable offense.

“Very well. But at the very least allow one of my personal servants to return the book to the library when you are finished with it, as my apology.” And Palpatine backs away, bowing slightly as he goes.

Anakin nods curtly and rushes away through the corridor, heading through the castle, dodging servants as he goes, working his way through the many hallways and rooms to get to the entrance to the castle gardens. Where he runs, people part like the waves of an obedient ocean to allow him passage through, and he soon finds himself at the entryway to the gardens.

Anakin walks more leisurely now, winding his way through various topiaries and pathways until he finds the stream that runs behind the castle. There is a large willow tree overlooking it, and Anakin sits with his back against it, his hand brushing against the cool green grass as he props the book up in his lap and opens it once more. He reads the dedication in the front.

_ To my new friend. _

Anakin blinks once. He’s sure the dedication read differently when he first opened the book in the library. But perhaps he was mistaken. He turns the page.

_ Hello there. You are about to read the first story in a series of many detailing the many lives of Obi-Wan Kenobi. I see you’re comfortable, so let us begin. _

Quite an odd start to a book, Anakin thinks, but he continues, now intrigued as to who this Obi-Wan Kenobi is or was, and what exactly these said, “many lives,” entailed. He turns the page.

_ Once upon a merry winter night, Obi-Wan awoke. But you already know this, don’t you? _

Anakin shivers as a gust of wind far too cold for spring rustles the leaves of the willow tree and blows against his skin like a promise of something very great yet to come. He turns another page.

_ Obi-Wan awoke and the stars were dancing, for he knew his one true love was waiting for him. He left the snowy glen where he had laid for thousands of years, asleep with the knowledge that one day, he would be united as one with his love. _

Anakin studies the picture accompanying the words. It is of a man, dressed in glittering white robes, crowned with the frost and icicles of a bitter winter. The man has a smile on his face and forest animals watch in awe as he emerges. The wind rustles his perfect auburn hair...Wait. Anakin blinks three times quickly. Did the image just...move? That would be in the realm of the fantastically ridiculous, he decides, and he elects to turn another page.

On this page, the man is walking barefoot on a dusty road, but his feet remain clean and his robes unmarred by the dirt. The smile on his face has not dimmed.

_ Obi-Wan traveled far and wide, sensing his love was in the world. Over mountains, through valleys, and across rivers he journeyed, a smile on his face and a warmth in his heart that only comes with being truly, irrevocably in love. _

Anakin turns another page. The man is lying under a willow tree next to a stream, much the same as the scene Anakin is inserted into currently. His robes remain as white as the snow whence he appeared from, but now he is crowned in the first flowers of spring. As Anakin more closely examines the image, he can tell the man must be in a castle garden, much like this one. But Anakin’s eyes are drooping, his mind is feeling too tired even to lift his hand and turn another page, so he allows his head to loll back against the willow tree, and his eyelids to flutter closed as he begins to drift off to sleep.

“Hello there, dear one.” The sound shakes Anakin slightly, but doesn’t jar him uncomfortably. Moreso, it wraps around him, caressing him as if it’s the gaze of a long lost lover. He looks to his left and sees a man approaching him. The man is walking barefoot, wearing white robes, and crowned in deep red carnations. Anakin cannot believe his eyes.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi? Is that who you are?" Anakin asks, astonished as the man comes closer and kneels down beside him. He smiles at Anakin before responding.

“It is, and you must be Prince Anakin Skywalker,” Obi-Wan says, extending his hand. Anakin places his own hand in Obi-Wan’s, and Obi-Wan kisses Anakin’s knuckles softly, murmuring, “Just as I remember you.” Surprised but very intrigued, Anakin withdraws his hand slowly.

“You act very familiar for someone who’s only just met me,” Anakin says, though malice does not tint his voice. Obi-Wan suddenly looks rather sad.

“My apologies, my Prince, I did not mean to overstep,” Obi-Wan says, and then he is silent, simply looking at Anakin, waiting for his reaction. Anakin looks Obi-Wan over again, and he feels a strange yet all too calming warmth settle over him, even more poignant than the warmth of the sun on this delightfully spring-soaked morning. He makes his decision.

“Would you like to sit with me? I was just reading.” And Anakin gestures to the now closed book in his lap. Obi-Wan smiles brightly.

“Nothing would make me happier, Anakin,” he says, moving to sit closer to him, back leaning up against the willow tree as well. He now looks at Anakin as if he’d like to ask a question, but Anakin is caught up in his gaze like a fly in the web of a spider who intends no harm, staring into Obi-Wan’s gray-blue eyes, gaze sweeping over his face, taking in the perfect glow to his skin, and the way his eyes crinkle at the edges.

Anakin finds himself wanting to know what Obi-Wan doesn’t dare to request, so he says, “Is there something you’d like to ask me... Obi-Wan, since we’re being so informal?” He smirks, and watches as Obi-Wan’s face lights up with happiness. 

“Anakin... May I touch you? I only will if you’ll allow it.”

The word “ _ Yes _ ,” leaves Anakin’s lips before he even has time to ponder why he’s so eager. And almost immediately after he says it, Obi-Wan leans forward to kiss his cheek ever so softly. It feels like the first touch of the spring sun, and Anakin closes his eyes and leans into it, though it is gone altogether too quickly.

“I’ve missed you, darling,” Obi-Wan murmurs as he pulls away, and Anakin feels less puzzled than he should. His brain is wracking its many passageways for memory of this beautifully kind man, but all Anakin finds is emptiness when he searches his mind for recollection of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Have we...met?” Anakin asks, looking at Obi-Wan and hoping the answer will be simple.

Obi-Wan looks sad again as he says, “I’m afraid that’s something not for you or I to discuss. But we may enjoy each other’s company for a time.” 

Anakin is distinctly dissatisfied with this answer, but he senses not to prod at the issue and turns back to his book, saying, “I was just reading this. It’s about you, but it doesn’t have a title. You were looking for your one true love in the story. Here, let me show you.” And Anakin opens the book.

Emptiness.

Anakin stares at the pages, feeling like a fool. There were images and written words here only a moment ago. But now as he flips through, there is absolutely nothing. A blank slate for a story that has yet to be written.

“I don’t...I don’t understand. It was here a moment ago. You were here! Right here! I swear I’m not crazy, I-”

“Hush now, dearest, I believe you. But I must leave you now. You’re almost awake again.” And Obi-Wan stands and turns to leave.

Anakin reaches out and clutches the edge of Obi-Wan’s white robe, not caring about any level of decorum as he cries, “Wait! You’ve only just gotten here! And-”

Anakin awakes to find himself clutching the book instead, still sitting alone under the willow tree. He looks at the sky. It must be noon by now. He rubs his eyes and then remembers. Obi-Wan! He was here! The book...oh, the book! Anakin opens the book frantically to see the dedication written just as plainly as the light of day.

_ To my dream companion _ .

Now Anakin knows something is out of the ordinary. That dedication was certainly not the one the book contained before. It has changed. Anakin closes the book, then opens it again. The dedication remains the same. He must speak to his father about this. 

Anakin stands up, brushes himself off, and once again goes running through the castle corridors, heading towards the throne room in search of the King. He reaches the great room and throws the doors open in front of him, marching towards the throne where his father sits and saying, “Father, I found this in the library.” And he holds the book out for his father to examine. 

The King eyes Anakin curiously, the gaze of his eyes weakened as they have been since the death of Shmi, as he rubs his graying beard and says, “It’s an old book, my son. What exactly do you want me to say of it?”

Anakin grows frustrated, but now realizes he has no way to prove that the book has changed in any way. He retracts his hand, but then he hears a familiar voice from somewhere behind him, hears footsteps drawing nearer with every syllable uttered.

“If the Prince has need of it, I could look over this book and see if it contains any useful information. He seems to be quite excited by it.” Advisor Palpatine’s voice slithers through the room like an asp through a meadow. For reasons unbeknownst to him, Anakin suddenly holds the book tightly to his chest.

“I do not have need of it. It was a silly request, nothing more. No need to trouble yourself,” Anakin says, as Palpatine walks past him and stands beside his father’s throne. Palpatine stares at him with a concerned expression on his face.

“My Prince, are you not feeling well? I can arrange to have a doctor look at you-” 

“I’m feeling perfectly fine, thank you. I’m going to retire to my room to complete my studies,” Anakin says, effectively cutting the Advisor off. He nods to his father and Palpatine, and then turns on his heel and walks back out of the throne room.

As Anakin hears the sound of the heavy wooden doors closing behind him, he heaves a sigh of relief for reasons he does not know. He opens the book again. The dedication has changed once more.

_ To my protector. _

Anakin just shakes his head at this new development. This book is proving to be much more than he bargained for, but he can’t bring himself to simply hand it over to Palpatine or even return it to the library. So he walks back through the castle hallways and heads towards his room.

When Anakin arrives in his quarters and shuts the door behind him, he immediately sits down at his desk and opens the book again. The dedication has remained the same. But now, as he turns to look for the page of Obi-Wan emerging from the winter snow, it’s no longer there. Instead, there is an image of Obi-Wan playing the harp in a meadow. A young man is sitting, clearly listening to the music being played, but his back is turned.

_ Obi-Wan met his one true love. He sat with him and mused over the beauty of his golden skin as the sunbeams danced in their eyes. _

And then, the image moves again. Obi-Wan’s hands strum the harp, and Anakin suddenly hears a few notes, carried on the air through his window, of the most beautiful instrument Anakin has ever heard. He turns the page. There is a picture of Obi-Wan sitting at what looks exactly like Anakin’s desk, looking down at a piece of parchment.

_ You should be studying, darling.  _

Anakin closes the book harshly, then immediately regrets it, patting the old leather binding as if it were alive and possessed feelings that Anakin may have hurt. He places it gently on his desk and pulls out a history textbook.

\---

“Anakin, are you paying attention to me?” The King’s voice cuts through Anakin’s daydreams of sleeping under a willow tree and kisses from a storybook character.

“Yes, Father,” Anakin answers, rolling his eyes as he picks at his food. The book sits on the table beside his plate, and the dining hall echoes with the sound of his voice. Not so long ago, it would have echoed with the sounds of his mother’s laughter, but those days are past.

“What did I just inform you of?” the King asks again, a little harshly.

“You wanted to know... if I’d completed my studies for the day,” Anakin drawls, not really interested at all in whatever it is his father has to say. But apparently that wasn’t the correct answer.

“No, I wanted to know why, if you do not usually study at the dinner table, you have this dusty fairytale storybook at your side. This is the book you brought to me earlier, is it not?” Anakin looks up at his father to find his blue eyes looking curiously at him.

“Yes, Father, this is the book.” Anakin feels a bit foolish now, but he also feels his left hand starting to move as if of its own accord almost, to touch the book, to shield it from unwelcome eyes.

“Might I ask why it is the newest guest at our table?” There is a hint of humor in his father’s voice.

“I haven’t finished reading it yet, and I thought I might keep it with me in case there was a lull in conversation.” It seems a good enough answer, but his father breaks out into laughter from across the table.

“A lull in conversation? You mean to tell me you’ve just been waiting for me to be quiet so you could pull out a children’s book and read silently to yourself. Anakin, you are your mother’s child. How I adore you.” And content, the King goes back to his meal.

\---

Anakin can’t remember if he ate three helpings of dinner or only half of one, but now he is in his warm bed, tucking himself under the blankets, moving to blow out his candles, and then he waits. He gets out of bed and grabs the book off his desk. He walks back over to his bed and opens the book. The dedication has changed.

_ To my moonlit darling. _

Anakin chuckles to himself before closing the book, and looks out his window at the moon for a moment before crawling back into bed and placing the book on the table beside his bed. Now he blows out his candles and settles in before closing his eyes.

“Anakin, Anakin my darling,” a voice calls. It’s Obi-Wan; Anakin is certain. But he wants to wait, wants to bask in this moment a little while longer before he opens his eyes. He hears footsteps approaching him.

“Anakin, oh, dearest, open your eyes for me.” And Anakin feels a hand tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. 

Anakin opens his eyes.

He’s under the willow tree with Obi-Wan again, and the long, flexible branches sway in the breeze as Obi-Wan looks down on him with a kind smile on his face.

Anakin looks Obi-Wan up and down. Then he looks down at himself. They’re both clothed in nothing but silvery moonlight.

“Obi-Wan, what if someone sees?” Anakin asks, but he reaches out to grab Obi-Wan’s wrist and hold it against his cheek.

“Nobody else is here, dear one. We have the garden to ourselves.” And Obi-Wan removes his hand from Anakin’s grasp, kneels before Anakin, and spreads Anakin’s knees apart.

Anakin whines a little, seeing that his cock is already hard and leaking. Obi-Wan looks up at him and asks, “Is this to your liking, Anakin?”

Anakin nods and says, “Yes, yes, it is, Obi-Wan.” Everything is moving so quickly, yet Anakin feels as though he’s caught in a single second, experiencing everything at a heightened sense of perception. And then Obi-Wan licks the tip of Anakin’s cock.

“ _ Oh,  _ Obi-Wan,” Anakin gasps, his legs moving wider apart as Obi-Wan grips his thighs gently. Obi-Wan takes the head of Anakin’s cock into his mouth and Anakin keens, his voice going high pitched as he squirms a little from the pleasure he’s receiving. Obi-Wan’s mouth is heavenly, so warm and wet, his tongue swirling around the underside of Anakin’s cock, Anakin thinks he must be some sort of divine being.

Obi-Wan pulls off of Anakin and leans up to bring their lips together. Anakin almost immediately opens his mouth slightly, allowing Obi-Wan’s tongue to slip inside and entwine with his. Anakin moans into the contact, so happy to have Obi-Wan right where he wants him, where he’s always wanted him. Making love with a man from a storybook upon a dream - he never would have thought it so utterly intoxicating.

As Obi-Wan pulls away, Anakin reaches his arms out and wraps them around Obi-Wan’s neck, saying, “Please don’t leave again.” He knows he likely sounds far more pathetic than he intended to, but he cannot bring even a single fiber of his being to care.

“I won’t leave you. Not yet,” Obi-Wan assures as he removes Anakin’s arms from his neck and kneels between his legs once more. “Have you ever done something like this before?” Light catches in Obi-Wan eyes in an almost hopeful glimmer. 

“N-no, Obi-Wan." Anakin hesitates. "I’ve only touched myself. I’ve never been with anyone else,” he adds quickly, hoping he won’t disappoint Obi-Wan.

But Obi-Wan only looks sad now, and he says, “Then I shall endeavor to make this as lovely as possible for you.” And with that, he takes Anakin’s cock into his mouth again. Anakin lets his head fall back against the trunk of the willow tree, listens to the birdsong overhead, and allows himself to just be in this moment, be it real or imagined or somewhere in between.

He feels Obi-Wan’s tongue lapping at the underside of his cock, then traveling to the tip to lick at the slit, and he moans, “Oh, Obi-Wan, that feels so  _ good _ , please don’t stop.” 

Obi-Wan doesn’t stop. He sucks at Anakin and strokes his thighs while working at him carefully and methodically, making Anakin mewl a little and reach a hand down to thread his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, which is for once, missing its signature crown.

Anakin feels warmth pooling in his lower stomach, threatening to bubble up and overcome him, and he tries to warn Obi-Wan, tries to tell him that he’s close, but he can only open his mouth and whine wordlessly, syllables failing to come to his lips as he feels white heat overtake his senses, and then—

Anakin wakes up alone, the front of his sleep pants covered in come and his skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his chest heaving as he realizes it’s morning.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and images come flooding back to him. The willow tree. Obi-Wan.  _ Obi-Wan.  _ Obi-Wan, without his robes and crown. Obi-Wan, kneeling between his legs. Obi-Wan, bringing him unimaginable pleasure. It was a dream. A mere dream that Anakin should chalk up to a bizarre day and too much reading of a bizarre book. But Anakin is no fool. He knows exactly what to do before he decides what this is. He leans over to his bedside table and picks up the book. He opens it to the dedication page.

_ To my lover under the willow. _

A smile creeps across Anakin’s face. Suddenly, he understands. Obi-Wan is  _ real _ . He exists. Perhaps only within this book and within Anakin’s dreams, but he’s more than a storybook character. He’s sentient. He can control things, even if only in his book. Anakin needs to tell his father. But then, he hesitates. If he does tell the King, he’ll surely have the book taken from him. Perhaps it is best to keep this a secret for now. The book remains silent in Anakin’s hands, but Anakin feels a sense of relief and agreement permeate the room.

Anakn stands up, and then remembers something else. He’s in a bit of a situation. He looks down at his pants and groans before walking across his quarters to find a new pair.

\---

Anakin goes about his various duties for the day, the book tucked safely under his arm. He visits his father in the throne room for a rather boring lecture about the pressures of ruling a kingdom that will be his when he finally chooses a partner to reign with. He endures the ever watchful eye of Advisor Palpatine as he nods from Anakin’s father’s side. When Palpatine asks Anakin how reading is going, Anakin is purposefully vague, saying he hasn’t gotten much chance to delve into the book.

It feels like ages before Anakin’s day is over, but he finally excuses himself from dinner and retires to his quarters to read. The servants have already lit his candles, so he decides to change into sleep clothes before lying down under his blankets and opening the book. He glances at the dedication page.

_ To my impatient Prince _ .

Anakin smiles and turns the page. The image is one of Obi-Wan with his arms outstretched in front of a crowd of people in a throne room. He’s once again wearing his white robes and crown of blossoms. The page is torn. Odd. It looks like someone is holding onto Obi-Wan’s arm, but the place where that person stood has been ripped out. Very odd. This book had no ripped pages yesterday. Anakin reads the accompanying text.

_ This is the reception that awaited Obi-Wan when he had reached the kingdom in which his one true love was found. Obi-Wan asked for his hand in marriage, and the Prince accepted. The kingdom rejoiced, for  _

The words on the page disappear, and Anakin suddenly feels himself getting sleepy, though the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. This sleepiness feels...unnatural, cloying, as if he’s being smothered by a thick blanket. But Anakin can’t fight it, and so he lets his eyelids begin to droop as the book drops from his hands. He’s not sure, but he’s almost certain he sees a shadowy figure enter his room just as sleep overtakes him.

He dreams of Obi-Wan drowning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...Unbeknownst to everyone, the man was not a man at all. He was an ageless being, his very soul spun from the changing of seasons, his very form woven by the passage of time. Bound against his will to a mere physical object with no means of defense, he sent his whispers to the stars in hopes of guarding his beloved from harm._

It’s a dreadful, dreadful sight: His love, submerged in murky water, frantic bubbles pulsing and bannering about his face, limbs going limp as if the fight has gone out of him. Or perhaps Obi-Wan was never fighting in the first place, for even now as he sinks into the darkening depths, he radiates serenity. Shafts of light still pierce from above, catching in his ever gentle eyes, that are clouded over with such heartrending sadness. His lips are turning the color of bruises, slightly parted in silence.

Anakin reaches out to Obi-Wan with a sob lodged in his throat. Every time he cranes himself closer, something invisible and violent tugs him backwards, while Obi-Wan drifts away from his reach. No matter how hard he strains, he can’t catch Obi-Wan’s hand; can barely touch him, barely graze the down on his skin before distance is wedged between them once more. _“Obi-Wan!”_ He gasps. _“Give me your hand. Let me help you. Please!”_ His words come out encapsulated in soundless bubbles. He tries, yet he has the distinct feeling that he is wading through something thicker than water or tears or slush, his body held back by a force unknown to man. How could this be? Such happiness, such beauty he has known, are they to be gone?

Obi-Wan’s eyes fall shut. For a moment fear overtakes Anakin, kniving into him like breaths of cold salt. But then thick, pale lashes flutter open again, and when Obi-Wan looks at him, immeasurable sadness takes the place of fear in his chest. Obi-Wan’s lips do not move; his voice echoes in Anakin’s mind.

_I am truly sorry that this is goodbye, dear one._

The moment seems to last for a century. Tears prickle at Anakin’s eyes. _“Am I not your protector?”_ More voiceless bubbles burst desperately around him. Neither his hands nor his voice can reach Obi-Wan, as the shadows begin to engulf his pale form. _“No! Obi-Wan…”_

“Obi-Wan!”

Anakin bolts up in bed, staring so sharply into the dark that his eyes sting. The taste of stale water and bitter failure still linger on his tongue, and Obi-Wan’s sorrowful parting words reverberate in his mind. He senses imminent tragedy running down his spine like the tip of an ice dagger. His hand gropes across the sheets and feels its way around the night table.

Nothing.

Panic creeps up from his guts, slow and sickening. Anakin throws himself out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold ground with little care. He lights a candle, shivering a bit in his thin nightshirt. The small flame sheds a honeyed glow on his immediate surrounding, outlining his bedpost, the nightstand. He shines the candle on his shelves, the light gleaming on the obsidian carving of a wingless dragon, his House’s sigil, and dyeing orange the ivory wooden charms of his mother’s homeland. There are a few leather-bound tomes detailing the customs and etiquettes at court, that he has never consulted even once, alongside his quills, his ink, and a little sliding puzzle made of quartz and marble. Everything is the same as it has always been.

He makes a quick fire in the hearth and begins to pull open every drawer there is in his bedchamber. He wrenches open the window curtains. He looks under his bed, looks under the rug for good measure. Would that he could just turn his room inside out like a pouch or shake it till his treasure falls out. Anakin could have sworn he has looked in every crook and nook. His nameless book, the book of _Obi-Wan_ , is nowhere to be found.

Anakin sinks down into his bed with his head in his hands. He racks his mind, trying to remember where he has put it last. He was sure he’d practically been holding it to his chest before he fell asleep, but he isn’t so certain anymore. He recounts the events of the day past: the study, the throne room, the dinner hall, then his bedchamber. The book has been tucked under his arm all this time… wasn’t it? Everything suddenly seems hazy, and fear and hope alike cloy his throat. Perhaps he has left it somewhere? On the dinner table maybe? Or back in the library? 

Boots barely laced, Anakin races out of his room in nothing more than a nightshirt, heedless of the nightly chills. He dashes down cold corridors and silent halls. Beyond the windows, the sky only begins to pale behind its widow’s veil; it is the hour of the tiger, so early that merely a handful of cooks have awoken. Within heartbeats Anakin reaches the library, where he makes a beeline for the other end of the room, wheeling the ladder with him. His fingers shake as he climbs, eyes on the high shelf where he first found the nameless book. Obi-Wan’s pale face and glazed-over eyes flash across his mind’s eye once more, gripping Anakin’s heart in terrible pangs. _Please, please let it be there_ , he begs to any higher being that might listen. 

The book is not there.

Anakin breathes out shudderingly, brows knit together, his face so contorted with anguish that he feels its muscles spasm. His lips begin to quiver; he struggles to still them and swallow down the salty taste in his mouth. Tears are no apt recourse for a prince, least a prince his age. He must think it through. It could be anywhere else in the library. It could be anywhere else in the castle. It could be anywhere else in the _kingdom_ , and he has the power to look for it.

 _I am a prince_ , Anakin thinks, hands balling into fists. _And I will take back what is mine._

—

“What is the meaning of this?”

Anakin almost doesn’t hear his father’s voice behind him. The sun has passed midheavens by then; and Anakin has donned a more proper attire at least. Before him, the vast, dusty library is more crowded than it has ever been, with ten servants and two scribes scuttling about between bookcases, checking every shelf, looking into every niche, every corner, every smallest crack to make sure they don’t miss anything. Sure, a book is not a needle; but what kind of book just vanishes out of his grip like that? Not to mention it is no ordinary book.

Slowly Anakin turns around to face the king. “Father,” he greets, a little dazed before he recalls the question he has been asked. “I am looking for my book.”

“Your book?” The king’s incredulous voice rings across the great room. “You forsook your morning lessons and lunch for a mere _book_? If I hadn’t come to personally seek you out, would you desert your seat when I hold court this afternoon as well?”

“I just might.” Anakin stares back, anger rising in him as if hoping to meet his father’s. Why, he has heard stories of even small noblemen whose sons do nothing but hunting or gambling or lying with tavern wenches all day. What is a little morning off to look for his lost treasure?

The king narrows his eyes at him, snowy brows pinched together. His tone is warning. “I did not raise you to be so insolent, my child.”

“And I was not raised to be weak-willed either!”

“Enough!” His father grips at his shoulder, towering over him. “I will not have you waste your time on a trifle. Leave now and prepare for court. _You_ ,” he gestures towards the servants and scribes in the library, his voice booming under the high ceilings. “All of you, _leave_. Such nonsense…”

Humiliation feels like a lash across Anakin’s face. Not only has the search been fruitless, but he, crown prince and of age, is being scolded as if he is a senseless child! Anakin seethes, knowing he cannot disobey a direct order from his royal father. Jaw clenched, he swallows thickly and strides away without even a word of leave, boots stamping heavily against the stone ground.

He’s not halfway back to his quarters when somebody crosses his path.

“My lord advisor,” Anakin greets, eyes downcast. Talking to Lord Palpatine - or any noble, for that matter - is the last thing he wants to do now. “I don’t have time.”

“My boy, I was only wondering if something is amiss,” Palpatine says kindly, his voice full of concern. The advisor matches his brisk steps, nearly gliding by his side, even as Anakin speeds up. “I worry for your health. You do not look like you had enough sleep.”

“I didn’t,” Anakin says dryly.

“If you would forgive me, my Prince, I sense you have gotten into a disagreement with his Grace.” Palpatine’s tone is a smooth, gentle band of silk slithering through his mind. The advisor has always been his father’s right hand and a dear old mentor to Anakin; it was, after all, only a few years ago that Anakin stopped calling him _Uncle Sheev_ out of propriety. 

“He called my book a _trifle_.” Anakin wrinkles his nose, keeping his brittle voice down. Glad as he is that a man he trusts is lending a sympathetic ear, he is still much too prideful to shed tears in front of the lord. “Ordered me to stop looking for it, as if I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“Looking for it?” An appropriately appalled look crosses Palpatine’s face. “My Prince, I was under the impression that you always have it on your person. Could it be…”

Anakin’s footsteps slow to a halt. He hangs his head. “I lost it,” he admits, feeling small. “I cannot remember where I left it.”

Palpatine lays a hand on his forearm. “What an unfortunate thing has happened to you. But surely your men will be of help? They are to serve the Crown Prince—”

“They are to serve my father,” Anakin grits. “Father has ordered _them_ to stop, too.” And how demeaning it is, that he only ever has as much power as his father allows him to. Gold and velvet and servants mean little when they all belong to someone else, don’t they?

Palpatine’s hand now squeezes his shoulder. “My deepest apologies, my Prince. If you aren’t opposed, may I offer you a hand?”

Anakin turns to look at the kindly man. Hope glimmers in his chest. The image of shadows slowly shrouding Obi-Wan’s figure blink into his mind again, and Anakin’s breath stutters. “What are you going to do?”

“I have servants of my own, employed under my House’s name.” Palpatine has a pensive look on his face. “I may take on the task of searching for your missing book, my Prince.”

The glimmer of hope glows and swells in his chest and Anakin cannot help a small smile. “And… And you would not tell my father?”

“My boy, this shall remain between us.” Palpatine smiles, as well.

—

Even with Advisor Palpatine’s servants taking up the task, looking everywhere in the castle for his nameless book, Anakin still cannot rid himself of the anxious pulse in his chest, of the feeling of fire ants crawling in his veins, of a foreboding sense he cannot comprehend. The rest of the day is of little remark; court goes by and dinner goes by and all the joys of the world go by right before Anakin’s eyes yet not much is retained. He hardly eats during the meal, and he dreads falling asleep; he couldn’t bear seeing Obi-Wan in that state again, unseeing eyes half open, fingers blanched, clearly losing consciousness.

But perhaps it is worse _not to_ see Obi-Wan, if you think about it. Seeing him would mean that his parting words aren’t definitive - that it is not really goodbye, that there is still a chance of finding him once more. What if all Anakin sees is a desperate void? What if the light has gone out of his dreams along with Obi-Wan’s last farewell? The thought alone pains Anakin terribly. As the night sets in, Anakin remains sitting in bed, absentmindedly fiddling with his sliding puzzle. The book is going to be found soon, he thinks. Until he is sure of Obi-Wan’s fate, he dares not close his eyes.

_Dear one, you must care for yourself._

The voice comes and goes like a flash of lightning without thunder. Anakin perks up, wide-eyed, the puzzle toy slipping from his grasp.

“Obi-Wan?” His voice wisps into the silence of the room. Anakin tries again. Still no answer comes.

It is a good long moment later when Obi-Wan’s muffled voice echoes once more.

_Promise me you will not let anger overtake you._

“It’s really you—Obi-Wan, wait, I need to… I’m so sorry, I couldn’t find you, I—”

_Promise me, Anakin, that you will not lose sight of your kind self._

“I promise. I promise!” Anakin slides out of bed, rising to his feet. “Come back, Obi-Wan! Please, don’t leave me. I would do anything!”

_Promise me…_

That is the last he hears of Obi-Wan’s voice.

Anakin must have passed out somewhere between that and sunrise, sinking into shapeless dreams that leave him restless and short of breath. He wakes up to the sound of knuckles rapping on wood, rapid and urgent. Rubbing his sleep-stung eyes, he pulls on a cloak and gets the door.

“My Prince,” Advisor Palpatine greets him with kind eyes and unsmiling lips. It doesn’t look like good news. Anakin’s mouth goes dry.

“Have you found the book, my lord?”

“I have found the… perpetrator, my Prince.” Palpatine’s mouth corners turn down. “I dearly apologize, but it seems to me that it was a castle servant - not one of mine, no - who was last seen with your book. We have little knowledge as to what he was trying to do with it. All we know is that he no longer has it.”

Anakin stares at him blankly, brows knit so tight together that his muscles ache. What happened? “You mean… It’s stolen?”

“And lost. You have every right to be angry, my boy.” The sympathy is apparent, and Anakin feels a haze of persuasion - like he should let himself be lulled by that easy allowance, bathe himself in the magma that is rising in his chest. He grits his teeth as fury shakes through him. How _dare_ a lowly servant lay hands on a prince’s possession; how dare he take it away when his filthy, narrow mind can barely comprehend what value there is in that wondrous book?

“Who is this servant? Why can’t we question him?”

A strange shadow passes across Palpatine’s eyes.

“Well, I’m afraid…”

—

The kitchen boy cowers at his feet. The scrawny thing could not have been older than fourteen. Anakin looks down at the terrified mess of snot and tears and feels nothing but disgust and blackened rage. This wretched creature has _stolen_ his book, stolen Obi-Wan from him, and would not even tell him where the book is. Could not tell.

The boy is mute.

Palpatine sets a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “My boy, I am so very sorry. I could not have guessed in a thousand years…”

There are guards standing in wait. There are servants witnessing - servants of the castle, servants of House Palpatine. There are cooks and washerwomen and pageboys and maids. Old and young, all lining the walls in petrified silence, their gazes respectfully downcast yet they were still closely watching the Crown Prince in all of the glorious fire of his fury.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to teach them all what it means to toy with the leniency of a prince - of a future king, no less! After all, too many of them here have known Anakin since he was a graceless little boy, undignified; and they fear his father’s shadow, not him. They do not fear him. They do not _respect_ him. All of them! That is why even this little brat dares to steal from him, isn’t it?

“Guards,” Anakin bellows. The kitchen boy whimpers when he’s dragged to his feet by the arms.

Anakin turns to Palpatine, silently asking for what to do. Yes; one day he will inherit the throne, and Lord Palpatine will be his own advisor as well.

Palpatine nods. “It is said that a thief stealing from the common folk has a hand taken. A thief stealing from the noble has a leg taken. And, rather unprecedented, a thief stealing from the royal has…”

“...Has their head taken,” Anakin finishes his sentence. A strange sort of glee surges in his body like fire liquor, alien to even his temperament. His heart thumps.

 _Dear one_.

“You are truly the speaker of justice, my Prince,” Palpatine praises softly by his ear.

Anakin parts his lips, and pauses. His heart and head both throb. He looks into the face of the mute boy, and the tears that are still streaming, and his dark eyes that keep flicking towards the lord advisor with something more than just fear. Something like the sharp ache of injustice.

_Promise me, Anakin…_

Anakin bites his lip. He won’t even have to see the moment the thief's head rolls, he reasons with himself. Won’t even have to touch the hilt of the sword that falls on the neck of the sentenced. All he has to do is to give the order. Isn’t that true power?

“Prince Anakin, it all hinges on your word now,” says the lord advisor.

Obi-Wan’s limp body flashes through his mind again. It should have bolstered his resolve, but now Anakin stares at the roaring anger within him as if he is a bystander to it. One word from him and this worthless life will be gone, and all will know him for his power. But is that true? Is any life worthless? Is it so small, the cost of a show of force?

“Sentence him, my Prince.”

_Promise me you will not let anger overtake you._

The boy’s eyes are glassy. The guard’s armors are gleaming. The prince’s lashes tremble. _I’m sorry, Obi-Wan._

Palpatine squeezes his shoulder, and...

“Let him go,” Anakin says.

The boy stumbles when the guard releases their grip. He falls to his knees once more, sobbing. The earlier disgust in Anakin cedes its place to pity and perhaps sentiments nobler than that. Behind him, Advisor Palpatine is saying something that Anakin does not register as he slowly lowers himself to one knee. He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder, earning a sharp flinch, but he doesn’t relent.

“I will not hurt you,” Anakin begins, smoothing out his voice lest it crack too soon. “You have my word. Now listen, that book… The book that you have taken is very important to me. All I want to know is what you have done with it.”

The boy blinks several times and nods frantically, all while casting fearful looks over Anakin’s shoulder, towards the side where Palpatine stands.

“Alright. Did you destroy it?”

To Anakin’s relief, the boy shakes his head.

“Did you give it to somebody?”

The boy shakes his head again, mouth opening and closing. He gestures rapidly in a way that Anakin does not understand, pointing towards his head, then his hand, then at the window. Anakin frowns.

“Did you… leave it somewhere?”

Now the boy nods, eyes brightening behind the remaining tears; his hands gesture again, even faster this time, tapping at his temple and clasping together as if in supplication. Anakin feels the breath leaving his lungs and a smile rising to his lips unbidden. The blackened anger is completely gone; hope shines on his beating heart. He holds out his hand, which the boy stares in apprehension. Anakin stays there until his hand is hesitantly taken, and he rises, helping the boy to his feet.

“You remember where you left it, is that it? Can you bring me there?”

The boy bows deeply to him and tugs his hand, signaling him to come along.

“My Prince…” Lord Palpatine starts to speak behind him. Anakin pays the advisor no mind.

The kitchen boy brings him through the gates, outside of the castle, with two guards tailing behind them. The sky arches high, magnificent clear blue and cottony white on a day so crisp yet so bright. They stride across the grass from patch to patch of sunlight. Briefly Anakin glances at the willow tree, and he’s feeling that tug in his chest again; that slight quiver of the invisible string of fate on his wrist.

They walk along the perimeter of the bank of the moat, and come to a stop at a more unkempt part where Anakin stands calf-deep in tall grass. Reeds sway and rustle gently as the wind raises minute ripples on the water surface. The boy turns to him, fidgets, and points at the water. The tug within him pulses stronger than ever.

“You _dropped_ it there?” Anakin asks, incredulous, and lowers his voice when the boy backs away. He sighs. “Why did you do that?”

The boy looks down, shaking his head softly, sniffling. He starts towards the water edge, but Anakin stays him with a hand on his arm. “No.”

And then the Crown Prince jumps into the castle moat.

His eyes open underwater. All around him is a dull, fogged blue-green, occasionally illuminated by shafts of sunlight, exactly the way it was in his dream a day ago. There is a splash beside him, and movements - it's likely a guard who just followed suit, but Anakin ignores them and glides out of their reach, pointedly diving down. The deeper he goes, the murkier and darker and colder it gets. He hears nothing but the rasp of bubbles forming and bursting around his face, and the loud, quick thump of his heartbeat. His ears hurt with the pressure; his nose stings from holding his breath; his vision blurs and blackens at the edges. Just a little more…

The gold-trimmed outline of something leather and rectangular flashes between pebbles and algae, catching Anakin’s eyes. He grazes the earthen bottom of the moat as he snatches up his treasured book, and uses up the rest of his strength to swim up. He breaks out of the surface with a splash and a gasp.

Drenched, shivering and panting for air, Anakin kneels in a patch of sunlight on the bank. Water still dripping from his hair ends, he holds the book to his chest, nearly doubled over. He blinks heavily. It isn’t only the water that stings his eyes, but the tears of relief as well. Somebody drapes over his shoulder the cloak that he has shed earlier, right before he jumped. Somebody says his name, and the syllables caress his mind like it comes from within his head.

_Thank you, Anakin._

Anakin closes his eyes to see with more clarity. A figure graces his mind, glistening, snow-white fabric soaked and stuck to his skin. Obi-Wan seems no less drenched than himself, yet no less graceful for it at the same time. The auburn of his wet hair darkens into something of a low-banked fire. Droplets sparkle on his cheek, on his smile, in his pale eyes bright with joy and pride.

“You have done so well.” He kisses Anakin on the forehead, warming Anakin from the very core.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says shudderingly. In his mind he raises his hands to cup Obi-Wan’s face, and he could almost feel the fuzz of hair against his palm. He’s smiling so wide it hurts. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Dear one, if it were up to me, I would remain with you for every moment of eternity.” Obi-Wan’s kisses trail gently down the bridge of his nose.

“Let me help you.” Anakin straightens up. “Let me protect you.”

“You already have.” Obi-Wan looks at him with such selfless tenderness it makes his heart ache. “In kindness you have undone malice. That is the first of three virtues which you must demonstrate in order to free me."

“Free you?” Anakin furrows his brows. “Where are you captured, Obi-Wan? What happened to you?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head slow and sad. “There is little I could tell you that would not lead to immediate destruction. I promise you, Anakin, you shall know in time.”

“Will you stay with me?” His words tremble like the tip of his fingers.

“Every step of the way, darling one.” Obi-Wan’s lips are on his in a fleeting kiss. The balmy fog around him begins to dissipate, and Anakin knows he will have to wake up soon. “I will be by your side. And now,”—he cards a hand through Anakin’s curls, that are tangled and wet even in the realm of the psyche—“I would rather you get dry, and get some rest. Could you do that for me?”

“I’d rather take a bath first.” Anakin smiles, before Obi-Wan’s light drains from his vision again.

—

The bathroom is dimly lit, by two torches on the walls and half a dozen candles around the stone tub. Steam rises from the drawn bath and fills the space with a humid warmth, tinted in a rosy aroma.

Anakin carefully sets the book on the thick edge of the tub - the poor thing has suffered enough water for a lifetime - and lowers himself into the bath. It’s comfortably scalding to his skin, eliciting from him a pleasant sigh as he sinks deeper into the tub. He takes a moment to appreciate the heat that relaxes his muscles and soothes his frozen hands and feet; dips his head under just to briefly rinse his hair. He emerges again with bright eyes and leans against the tub’s wall, reaching for his book. He runs an adoring finger over the spine, where lies a little silhouette inlaid with mother-of-pearl that he has not seen before. 

He opens the book, knowing he won’t be able to read much in this darkness. He doesn’t hold back a soft laugh at the dedication.

_To my brave hero._

“I was hardly brave,” Anakin murmurs, turns the pages and lands on an illustration: The noble profile of a man, crowned in flowers and clad in feathered snow, a sun-warmed blush adorning his cheek, a hint of silver creeping up his temple, all the more beautiful in the flickering candlelight… “I was so afraid, I almost did something horrendous.”

 _And yet you did not._ Obi-Wan’s voice warms his ears and his nape, so real it might have been spoken right against his skin. _There are evils beyond comprehension lurking right beside you, Anakin. You have won your first battle of will, against both grief and corruption. I am proud of you._

Anakin smiles. The water sloshes lightly, hugging his body without him making a movement. “How are you able to speak to me now?”

 _It was thanks to you._ There’s a stretch of silence, as if Obi-Wan means to say more, but is unable to. _To your kindness._

Anakin recalls what Obi-Wan has said earlier - three virtues, and an enchantment that doesn’t allow him from speaking of his bondage. He supposes he must have faith, and uncover the truth in time. He said once that he would do anything for this man; he still would.

“I wish you were here, Obi-Wan,” Anakin confesses, after a moment. “Here where I can see you, feel you. Not just in a dream.”

 _Patience, Anakin._ Despite what he says, Obi-Wan’s smile is unmistakable in the shape of his words. _Or perhaps..._ Then a musing hum that makes Anakin grin and close the book.

“ _Perhaps_ what, my storybook angel?”

Obi-Wan huffs in a low chuckle. _Turn around and look at the water._

Anakin cannot contain a gasp of surprise. The room is dark enough that he can see his reflection in the bath water, but not just. Beside him… is Obi-Wan, smiling kindly at him, a lock of damp hair still strewn across his forehead. Anakin doesn’t dare to breathe, as if the smallest movement would cause the water to ripple and the image to disappear.

 _It’s alright, my dear. I’m here._ In the reflection, Obi-Wan strokes Anakin’s hair. Anakin’s eyes flutter; he feels only a fraction of a breeze at the back of his head, no more. He slides all the way back down until the water comes up to his chin, tickling his skin like a lover’s kiss. “But I still cannot feel you,” he says, giving a little moue.

Obi-Wan laughs this time, a lilting, musical thing. _As you wish, sweet prince. Would you close your eyes for me?_

Excitement simmering in his stomach, Anakin nods and does as told. All of a sudden sensations flare to life on his body: the touch of warm hands on his chest, the brush of whiskery kisses against the side of his neck. Obi-Wan’s breaths roll down his wet skin and pool at the hollow of his collarbone.

“Wherever the water touches you, I can,” Obi-Wan whispers, kissing the top of his shoulder. “For as long as your eyes stay closed, my touch remains.”

Anakin leans back against the feeling of Obi-Wan’s front, every curve and valley of their bodies fitting together like long lost puzzle pieces. Tentatively, he raises a hand to his chest, and is surprised to feel the shape of Obi-Wan’s hands there - not quite solid, but distinct, from the down on his wrists to the calluses on his knuckles. The water is warm and so is his love’s embrace.

He tugs Obi-Wan’s hand down, past the hollow of his stomach and the dip of his navel, lower and lower until Obi-Wan has to smile against his skin and curl his fingers around the base of Anakin’s cock, too light, too gentle.

“Do you want me to touch you here?” Obi-Wan whispers.

“Yes, yes, Obi-Wan.” Anakin feels out of breath already, pleas lacing into his voice. Obi-Wan plants kiss after kiss along his spine, hand wrapping around Anakin’s cock. Anakin sighs, barely able to keep himself from thrusting forth if not for a firm hand at his hip. He moans as Obi-Wan’s thumb slides over the crown, and gasps out, “...A-And more than that. I want you to take me. Want you to be my first.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t still his languid strokes. He kisses Anakin on the crook of the neck, slowly parting his lips to suck on it, and Anakin’s breath hitches audibly. 

“How could I deny a request such as that?” His voice is so soft right below Anakin’s ear. Slicked fingers trail along the inside of Anakin’s thigh, brushing against his entrance as if in question. Anakin lets out a high, quiet “Please”, and Obi-Wan slides one in. Anakin shivers as his love kisses hotly down his shoulder blade, his body a tight curve of solid heat. Water splashes with the little jolts of his legs. His damp breaths join the damp air, more ragged and rapid with every slow thrust.

Obi-Wan’s finger curls up. Light bursts in the darkness behind Anakin’s eyelids, incandescent like the molten-gold heat in his core. He makes a thin, tight sound, trying to bear down on Obi-Wan’s hand, desperate for more of that touch. Obi-Wan gives it to him, gently picking up his pace as he thrusts his finger in and out and adds another, tightening his other hand on Anakin.

Obi-Wan murmurs a litany of praises against his skin, curling and crooking his fingers, but it’s not enough. Hands grabbing blindly for something to hold onto, Anakin rocks back and gives a soft moan, thighs quivering. “Give me more; I can take it. I want you, I want you, Obi-Wan.” He tips his head back, pillowed on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“You have me.” Obi-Wan noses into his hair. “You are doing so well, darling, holding yourself so open, moaning so prettily for me.” He draws his fingers out, making Anakin whine from the emptiness. His hands frame Anakin’s hips, guiding him up. “Darling, are you ready for me?”

“Yes, please, _oh—”_

Anakin’s chest heaves. Obi-Wan brings him down, rolling his hips into him. It feels divine, like all the stars have gone out of the sky to fill his body with hand-clenching pleasure. He arches his back, profanities unbefitting of a prince punched out of his exhales; he feels so unbelievably full and already stretched so thin on the precipice. Obi-Wan grips him firmly but gently, setting a rhythm for him and all Anakin can do is keen and cry out his love’s name.

He hears Obi-Wan too, his stuttering breaths and his tightening hands and his thundering heartbeat. He loses himself in the heat, lets Obi-Wan snap his hips into him as he pleases, lets Obi-Wan bounce him in his lap and drive into that good spot inside him hard enough to make his toes numb. He floats and sinks at the same time, moored only by Obi-Wan’s touch and “Sweet prince, you look marvelous like this” and “Anakin”, _Anakin_ , his name on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue like a sung prayer.

Obi-Wan’s hand wraps around his cock all of a sudden. Anakin thrusts into it with little thought and moans hoarsely at the changed angle. Water splashes, droplets branding his cheeks. “That’s it, my love,” Obi-Wan spells the words into his skin, whiskers drawing reddened paths on his shoulder. “Let go for me.”

Anakin repays the night sky for all the stars he has stolen: they spring before his eyes as he unravels, throat parched with the force of his keens. Obi-Wan holds him fast, grinds against that wonderful spot inside him with tight rolls of the hips.

“Don’t, ah, don’t stop, Obi-Wan...”

Obi-Wan kisses his jaw by way of answering and thrusts up. Anakin trembles, too sensitive, whimpering with every slide. He clenches, and he feels the exact moment the thread snaps for Obi-Wan, the last, hard stroke before he fills him warm and perfect inside.

Anakin keeps his eyes closed and himself submerged, so that Obi-Wan’s hand may roam across his body and caress his skin, so that Obi-Wan’s lips may pepper more gentle kisses into the crook of his neck. “You’ve done well, Anakin.” His lips curve, a distinct smile against Anakin’s skin, and Anakin smiles as well, resting back boneless and sated against Obi-Wan’s front. “Don’t you want to dry yourself and get warm?”

Anakin shakes his head, to which Obi-Wan chuckles. He laces his fingers into Obi-Wan and wraps himself in the light sound of Obi-Wan’s breaths. He longs for the day where he can unshackle Obi-Wan from his curse; where they can dance barefoot on the sunlit grass, under the willow tree, and take each other’s hand, eyes wide open, unafraid.

“I promise you, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says into the candlelit darkness. “I will free you. I will do anything, everything, to free you.”

Obi-Wan’s arms tighten around him. The water laps warmly against his neck. “I will wait for you, dear one. No matter how long it takes.”

—

_...Unbeknownst to everyone, the man was not a man at all. He was an ageless being, his very soul spun from the changing of seasons, his very form woven by the passage of time. Bound against his will to a mere physical object with no means of defense, he sent his whispers to the stars in hopes of guarding his beloved from harm. Little did he know, the Prince wished to protect him in turn. As their love bloomed anew through ink and parchment, the Dark One lurked, hoping still to stain the fabric of innocence that was the Prince’s youthful soul…_


	3. Chapter 3

“My son, would you care to tell me exactly _why_ you dove into a ten foot castle moat, fully clothed? To retrieve an old storybook? Have you gone completely _mad_?” The King’s voice is stern, but there’s a frantic edge to it, almost as if it will snap if Anakin so much as utters one incorrect syllable. Anakin looks defiantly at his father, book tucked safely under his arm.

“I told you, Father. My book was taken and I had to rescue it. Surely you would not scold your son for the desire to preserve something containing knowledge.”

The King shakes his head, his mouth falling slightly agape as if all capacity to speak has left him. Now it is Advisor Palpatine who speaks, his voice once again smooth, all too smooth to be the voice of one who has good intentions.

“Your Grace, if I may, I must say I believe your son is disturbed of mind. Since he found that book, he has acted all too strangely, even going so far as to endanger his precious life to pull it from the bottom of the moat. I suggest more drastic action be taken.” Palpatine smiles kindly at Anakin, but there’s a sharpness to his gaze, a knife hidden behind velvet cloth.

“Drastic measures? Father, surely you must see that the advisor is being ridiculous, and furthermore, does not know his place.” Anakin knows his voice is tinged with desperation, for while he is the Prince, the King may prescribe any punishment that he sees fit, and the thought of the book being taken away from him again, even if only for a moment, has Anakin’s brain wracking itself for an escape route.

“Your Grace, you would listen to the ranting and raving of a boy, _poisoned by a book_? His mind is ill, your Grace. This must be remedied. I know people who can aid us. Use my knowledge, I beg you.” Palpatine looks as if he’s about to actually grovel and beg for Anakin to be subjected to some sort of “treatment,” and Anakin wrinkles his lip in disgust.

The King sighs deeply and looks at Anakin, pleadingly. “Give me the book, Anakin. We can forget all of this ever happened if you will only relinquish this thing which has caused nothing but trouble for you and all those who dwell in the castle.” 

Anakin looks around, at his Father’s throne, at the empty throne by his side, at the banners decorating the walls. And then he looks back at his father’s face.

“No.”

“You see? The young Prince is ill, your Grace. He needs help we are not qualified to provide,” Palpatine says, shaking his head as if in mourning after he speaks, and leaning in to whisper to the King, things that Anakin strains to hear but cannot make out.

The King nods slowly, and then looks to Anakin again. “My son, my dearest, only son, I hereby command you to give the book to Advisor Palpatine. He will investigate it and decide if you should be allowed to keep it. Until then, you are confined to your quarters.”

Anakin’s mouth falls open. Then he becomes angry. He raises a hand to his father, pointing at him, hoping to imbue the gesture with all his rage, but then he hears an oh so familiar voice.

_Remember not to give in to your anger, dear one. Do not let it define you._

And Anakin, standing before the King, suddenly feels as though he is alone no longer. But he will not allow the book, allow _Obi-Wan_ , to fall into the hands of those who might misuse him. So he opens his mouth to speak.

“Father, I refuse to give up this book, and that is final.” Anakin speaks in a measured tone, the anger gone from his voice. He will not give in to vexation. But he will also not give in to his father’s demand.

The King looks defeated, but there is firmness in his voice as he speaks. 

“Very well then. Guards, escort us to the high tower of the cathedral.”

\---

“Hmm, I see. Very curious indeed. And this is a recent development?” The High Priest looks Anakin up and down as the King finishes explaining the situation, his gaze piercing into Anakin like a finely honed arrow, flying at its target.

“Yes, High Priest. The young Prince found this book which he now holds, and since then he has refused to be parted from it, to his own detriment.” The King speaks with a resigned tone, and Anakin watches as Advisor Palpatine nods solemnly from where he stands behind him.

“If I may speak, your Grace?” Palpatine asks, and Anakin sighs softly, the sound of someone who is teetering on the precipice of giving up hope.

“You may,” the King says, sounding more discouraged than ever.

“Perhaps it would be wise to lend the book to me during the time of the Prince’s confinement. I could study its mysteries, in hopes that we discover why exactly this book is of such interest to the Prince. I could—”

“No!” Anakin cries, now moving to stand facing his father, grabbing him by the shoulder in a most informal manner, squeezing his hand into his robes as he looks at him with pleading eyes.

“Don’t let him take the book! Don’t! Whatever you do, don’t take this from me and give it to him!”

The King takes Anakin’s wrist and removes Anakin’s hand from his shoulder, saying, “My son, this is for your own good. Surely you cannot expect a parent to stand by while his child falls ill under the spell of some misbegotten piece of literature? How could I live with myself if I lost you as I lost your mother?” Now the King looks at Anakin with determination in his eyes, and it feels like a kick in the teeth. The book will be taken away, Anakin will lose Obi-Wan, and all his hopes for the future will be dashed.

But then.

_Show him, Anakin._

Obi-Wan’s voice is firm, but not commanding. It’s a request, one made almost desperately.

Anakin opens the book and shows his father the page he’s opened to.

The image is of a woman with a delicate crown upon her head. She sits in a castle garden, under a willow tree. A man sits by her side, his hair not yet grayed. Their fingers are intertwined. She is laughing, and he wears a smile as bright as the first rays of sunrise. 

Anakin can’t be quite sure, but he swears he hears the tinkling of his mother’s laughter echoing in the grand hall of the cathedral.

The King reaches a hand out to close the book. He looks at Anakin with a new understanding in his eyes, though his gaze remains stern.

“The book will remain in my custody until it is decided how to proceed,” the King declares. His words hold finality.

“But, your Grace…” Palpatine trails off, realizing he’s spoken out of turn.

“Silence, advisor. My decision is final. Now, High Priest, escort the Prince to his chambers for the next week.” The King looks at Anakin one more time and takes the book from his hands. Anakin grips it all the more tightly for a moment, more than reluctant to relinquish his hold. But he knows further insolence will cause a more severe punishment, and he watches, distraught, as his father tucks the book under his arm in the same way Anakin had so many times before.

“Father—” Anakin starts, but the King raises a hand to indicate the utter seriousness of his decision.

“That is enough. I will see you soon, my dear son.” And the King turns to leave as the High Priest grips Anakin’s upper arm with a strength seemingly too great for the age he appears. Palpatine looks over his shoulder at Anakin as he and the King are escorted out of the room by the guards, and his eyes glitter like that of a venomous snake. Anakin half expects a forked tongue to appear from between his lips. But before Anakin can truly ponder the meaning of this feeling, the High Priest is speaking.

“Well then, my Prince, let us prepare you for your stay.”

\---

Anakin walks barefoot up the steps of the high tower of the cathedral. He is clothed in a plain white gown that reaches his ankles, the fabric thin enough that the chilly air of the tower seeps into his bones, even though he knows the air outside is pleasantly warm. The tower seems almost unnaturally cold, as if a bitter winter’s kiss has been bestowed upon it, lingering far longer than was originally intended.

“I think you’ll find your room to be satisfactory, my Prince. Perhaps not as lavish as your usual quarters, but you should be content with it. Remember, moderation in all things is a divine virtue.” The High Priest prattles on as they reach the top of the tower, and Anakin finds himself wrapping his own arms around himself as if it would provide him with some sense of comfort that he’s long lost.

After what seems like eons, they reach a single wooden door. There is a heavy lock on the outside. It looks like the entrance to a prison cell. Anakin shudders as the High Priest walks around him and takes out a set of large keys and unlocks the door. He beckons to Anakin, gesturing for him to walk inside, his white and gold robes swishing around him slightly, the only noise in the stillness of the tower.

Anakin walks through the door and observes the room before him. There is naught but a bed with a single blanket atop it, a window with bars—to prevent escape from this prison, clearly—and a chair pushed up against the wall. Anakin chuckles rather bitterly to himself as he hopes there is at least a chamber pot. 

“You will take your meals in your room. Someone will come to attend to you intermittently. Any insolent behavior will be reported to the King immediately.” And with that, the High Priest backs out of the room and shuts the door. The sound is heavy and final, and Anakin feels as though he’s as good as locked away for the rest of his life.

Anakin walks over to the bed and sits down. The mattress is far too firm to be comfortable. But he has other, far more pressing concerns than his levels of physical comfort. He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes, thinking _Obi-Wan, please_.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“There you are, dear one. Look at what they’ve done to you.” Obi-Wan’s voice is saturated with sorrow, and Anakin sighs, half in sadness at his condition and half in relief that Obi-Wan is still with him in some way. He wishes he had some reflective surface, a mirror, a cup of water, _anything_ just to see Obi-Wan. He chokes on a sob, an ugly thing that swells up in his throat and comes out sounding strangled.

“Oh, my darling Anakin, I’m here with you. My book is safe with your father, and he will keep it with him until you return. And you will return, won’t you? I know you will. This is but a lesson to be learned.”

“Why does everything have to be a lesson?” Anakin cries, sitting up in bed suddenly. “Why must everything be some sort of test that I must conquer? Is it not enough that I just have you by my side?” And Anakin feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. They well up and overflow, wet and hot on his cheeks. He brings his hands to his face, hoping to shield himself from eyes that are not there, and cries into his palms, his cheeks heating up as teardrops fall through his fingers and onto the rough fabric of the blanket he sits on.

“Anakin, how I wish I could wrap you in my arms right now. But I am with you. Always.”

Anakin only sobs harder, feeling as though everything right and good within the world he lives in has been diminished, what was once a burning flame has been all but extinguished before his very eyes. And it’s entirely his fault. He should have gone about things differently. Should have kept Obi-Wan more well hidden. Should not have been so keen to parade his love for the judging eyes of the world who could never understand that even now, even when almost all is lost, Obi-Wan is _everything_ to him.

“Anakin, my love, we will weather this together, and we will emerge all the stronger for having done so. You must not lose sight of hope. Grip your hope and your love, clutch it close to your chest away from all harm, and one day it will grow strong enough to take flight on its own.”

Anakin feels the barest hint of another actual presence in the room, as if Obi-Wan is trying very hard to manifest himself in some physical form.

“Don’t,” Anakin says, now lifting his head and looking around the room, as if by some miracle he would see Obi-Wan standing before him in this prison cell. But he sees nothing, just as he knew all along he would. His mouth feels cottony, there are teardrop stains on his gown, and he sniffles as he speaks to Obi-Wan again.

“We both know you’re not strong enough to do what you’re trying to do. Don’t strain yourself. Not now, when I need you,” Anakin says, and he feels the strength of Obi-Wan’s presence lessen in the room, as if he were wine, watered down.

“You can hardly blame me for trying to console you, dear one. But I will remain as I am. It is true I am not very powerful when I’m far from my book.” Obi-Wan sounds resigned, the hope he so valiantly championed sucked out of him.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan. I think I just need to sleep,” Anakin says, climbing under the blanket on the bed and now wishing there was a pillow somewhere. But, just as he imagined before entering this room, the ascetic atmosphere provides him with few comforts.

Anakin’s dreams are clouded, filled with bony hands that grasp at him and laughter that echoes into the darkness in the foulest of ways.

\---

On the first day of Anakin’s confinement, he paces the room like a caged leopard, his bare feet barely making a sound against the cold stone floor, devoid of any rug. Obi-Wan’s presence is weaker than ever, and Anakin can only hear indistinct murmurs in the air. Each time, he whips his head around in the direction of the sound, hoping to hear more, hoping to reach out and touch and feel something solid, something substantial that proves Obi-Wan is with him.

The High Priest visits him at midday with a plate of food: a small loaf of bread and a bowl of some sort of stew, the contents of which Anakin would rather not guess at. The High Priest’s robes are red and gold today. Blood red, the fabric flowing around his body as if he is clothed in an ocean of the lifeblood he’s bled from Anakin already in this confinement. Anakin sneers at him.

“I don’t want anything from _you_ ,” Anakin snarls, standing up to his full height from the bed and staring at the High Priest, a threat in his eyes.

“My Prince, I am only here to assist you. There is no need to resort to defensiveness. But I must say that I am tasked with your care, and if you do not eat willingly, more drastic measures will have to be taken.” The High Priest glares at Anakin as if daring him to continue with his standoffishness.

Anakin walks over to the High Priest and snatches the tray of food from him, his hands shaking in anger as he walks back over to the bed and sits down upon it. The High Priest looks satisfied, and Anakin wants nothing more than to wipe his face clean of that expression, to show him what happens when a Prince’s will is challenged. But he takes a deep breath and exhales, remembering his first test, and he feels the heat of rage slowly seep out of his clenched fists.

The High Priest leaves and shuts the door behind him, and Anakin looks through the barred window, out to the soft blue sky as he eats slowly. He wonders where Obi-Wan is. He feels anger flood his senses again. Obi-Wan hasn’t shown himself today, abandoning Anakin in his hour of greatest need. Anakin sets the now empty tray and bowl down on the floor beside the bed.

“Dear one, I am here.” The voice is right beside Anakin’s ear, as if Obi-Wan were here and whispering endearments in his ear.

“Obi-Wan? Oh, you’re here!” Anakin resists the urge to turn his head in the direction of the voice, instead allowing it to wash over him and comfort him like a warm blanket.

“Of course I am here, dear one. I never left you. When you are clear of mind, my presence becomes stronger.”

“Obi-Wan, I’m trying, I swear to you I am, but I do not know how I’ll survive this,” Anakin says, fearing if he continues to speak, he will cry again. 

“You will, dearest. I know you will. Remember the virtue growing within you.”

Anakin nods, knowing Obi-Wan must be able to see him somehow. He flops down on the bed and looks up at the stone ceiling of the room and closes his eyes.

He sleeps for the rest of the day and through the night. He does not dream.

\---

On the second day of Anakin’s confinement, he lies in bed, refusing to move. The High Priest brings him his usual meal and Anakin eats silently, wondering where Obi-Wan is. 

Anakin feels despair well up within him, a black abyss that swallows up all hope like a starving beast. Obi-Wan does not appear. Anakin’s despair grows. He’s so close to giving up, to surrendering to this sadness and letting it reign over him, letting it permeate through every cell of his body until he is naught but a being of suffering.

Anakin dozes, slipping in and out of slumber like a leaf caught between two winds.

\---

On the third day of Anakin’s confinement, he makes a decision. He will not surrender. But he will not charge against the bars of his prison like a rabid animal, either. He elects to attempt something his mother tried to teach him when he was young. He meditates.

He sits cross-legged in the center of his bed, hands on his knees, palms facing upward, and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He waits for Obi-Wan to appear, but he calms himself, not allowing his mind to give in to frantic worry. Obi-Wan will come.

“My dear Anakin. You’ve found me again.”

“You were never lost to me, Obi-Wan. I simply needed to learn to calm my mind enough to discover you again.”

Anakin can sense that if Obi-Wan were visible, there would be a smile on his face. 

“I’m with you, Obi-Wan. Always,” Anakin says, and he hears there is a warmth to his voice unlike anything he’s ever experienced prior to this. He sounds...at peace. His mind is a calm ocean, his worries rippling out and then disappearing, absorbed by the greater knowledge that he and Obi-Wan will be together. He knows they will. 

He hears the sound of multiple sets of feet approaching his room. The door flies open, banging against the wall behind it with a solid thud. It is the High Priest, accompanied by the King and Advisor Palpatine, who looks very much like he’s trying to hide intense displeasure. Anakin cannot help but feel a small glimmer of satisfaction at how unhappy he looks, but he schools his face into a neutral expression and waits for his father to speak. He cannot help but glance quickly at the book tucked under his father’s arm.

His father looks as if he wants to approach him, but he stays where he is. “Leave us,” the King says. The High Priest and Palpatine both look incredulous, and their mouths open as if to object, but the King speaks again.

“I said leave us. Do you not know how to obey an order from your King?” And he glares at both of them, his gaze allowing no room for argument. Anakin resists the urge to snicker, but he stays still and silent as a tree whose roots reach deep underground, unbothered by the shifting tides of the world.

“Yes, your Grace,” the High Priest and Palpatine both say in unison, and they exit the room, their shoulders brushing, their robes swishing against the floor. The door closes behind them, and the King rushes forward to embrace Anakin. His arms wrap around Anakin’s shoulders, and Anakin feels a rush of surprise, but he removes his hands from his knees and wraps his arms around his father in turn.

“My son, forgive me. I have erred. In seeking to protect you I have only crafted a prison for you from which there was no escape.” All sternness is gone from his father’s voice, replaced by the contrition of one who has truly realized his mistake. Anakin squeezes his father tightly.

“But Father, you don’t understand. I am already free. No prison could truly hold my soul, not even the thickest walls or the heaviest locks could break me. I have found inner peace. Not through surrender, but through temperance. I have learned not to give in to anger, not to give in to despair.”

His father withdraws, and looks at Anakin as if he’s observing a precocious child. 

Anakin continues. “I understand you made your choice to protect me, but your judgment was flawed. In seeking to shield me from things you don’t understand, you only barred me from experiencing things as they should be. I love you, so I forgive you. But I will never stand for this sort of treatment again. If you attempt to separate me from my book again, you will see the last of me. I will not be made a prisoner in my own kingdom. And it is my kingdom, as much as it is yours. Do not forget that.”

Anakin surprises even himself. This newfound courage and clarity of mind amazes him. He feels...he feels like a King, not a young Prince who ventures off on whatever new fanciful journey flashes before his eyes. 

Anakin’s father is silent and still as the grave for a moment before he speaks again, saying, “Anakin, I understand, and you are justified in your feelings. I will not trespass against you in this way again. I am here to return your book and invite you back home, if you so wish to return.” And the King removes the book from under his arm and hands it to Anakin gingerly.

Anakin gazes at the book fondly, as if it’s the first and last good thing he’ll ever see, and he runs his fingers over the leather binding affectionately. He feels Obi-Wan’s presence grow much stronger around him, as if he could appear at any moment.

_Show him, dear one._

Anakin doesn’t need to ask or even ponder on this request as he looks back at his father. He pats the bed beside him, inviting his father to sit down beside him. His father looks slightly surprised, but he sits down, the bed creaking slightly under the weight of two people.

Anakin opens the book. He looks at the dedication page.

_To my patient Prince._

Anakin smiles a small smile to himself and sneaks a glance at his father, who is reading the dedication with a strange look on his face. It is the face of someone who’s just decided to reread something they’d read long ago and forgotten, rather than the face of someone who is turning the pages of a book they’ve only just discovered. Anakin wonders at this, but he feels now is not the time to investigate this phenomenon. He turns the page.

The image is of his mother and father in the throne room of the castle. His father is holding a small boy in his arms. The boy is unmistakably Anakin, perhaps at age three. The King holds Anakin high above his head as the Queen looks on, her mouth open in joyous laughter. 

_The King and Queen rejoiced, for they loved their son more than anything in the world._

The words on the page are simple, but Anakin still feels himself tearing up a bit at this image of him with his family. He looks over to his father, whose eyes are glistening with tears as well. 

“Your mother loved you, Anakin. As do I. I do not understand this book or what it means, but if your keeping it brings you happiness, I will not fight that. I was a fool to ever think I should.” 

Anakin smiles softly, feeling warmth spreading throughout his soul, intertwining with his newfound inner peace, the two sensations braiding together to create an altogether lovely feeling.

Anakin closes the book and stands. He extends a hand to his father, who is still sitting on the bed, an expression of fading amazement on his face.

“Let’s go home, Father.”

\---

Anakin removes his riding boots after closing the door of his quarters behind him. He sighs. He’s home. He looks around the room, taking in the familiar decor. He never thought he’d be so happy to see it all again. He’s still clad in the white gown from his confinement, and was sent to his room to get his bearings before dinner. He walks over to his bed and flops down on it, sighing again and closing his eyes.

“Well done, dear one. You have completed your second test. You have learned Temperance.”

Anakin opens his eyes at the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice. And then he sees it. Or sees _him_ , rather. Out of the corner of his eye, he can _see_ Obi-Wan. He’s not solid and physical like a human being. In fact, he’s rather transparent. Anakin immediately turns his head in the direction of Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan fades away almost instantly, only to reappear on the other side of Anakin’s room. Anakin feels desperate confusion flood his senses, and he opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off.

“Do not fret, darling. You cannot look directly at me, but by passing your test, you have allowed me to be with you in a more tangible way. But sleep now, dearest. We’re both aware of how exhausted you are. I’ll be with you. Always.” 

Anakin resists the urge to turn his head again, so he simply climbs under the blankets atop his bed and nestles in against the pillow, not bothering to get up and change his clothes, so tired is he. He lets his eyelids droop shut, darkness overtaking him as thoughts of inner peace and tests of moral fortitude swirl through his mind.

\---

“Oh, dear one, how I want to _drown in you_.” 

Anakin looks up and sees Obi-Wan standing by the edge of his bed. Obi-Wan is clothed in simple white robes, but he wears no crown upon his head. He looks down upon Anakin and reaches a hand out to brush his knuckles against Anakin’s cheek. Anakin closes his eyes and a small, “Oh,” escapes his lips, the sound of his soft voice now the only sound in the room.

“Will you let me, Anakin? Will you let me take you, love you, _worship_ you until all coherent thought has left your mind?” Obi-Wan leans in closer, and his eyes sparkle like distant stars hung in the sky long ago.

“ _Yes_ .” Anakin does not have to take any time to ponder. He knows what Obi-Wan’s intentions are, and he wants nothing more to slip into intimacy, let it overcome him and snuff out all thoughts in his mind other than _Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan._

Obi-Wan smiles and then slowly disrobes, the white cloth sliding off his shoulders without a sound, and Anakin feels a rush of excitement course through him. He pulls down the blankets from around him to see he is still clothed in the white gown. He moves to sit up and pull it off, but Obi-Wan places a hand on his shoulder.

“You look so pretty in this, dear one. Don’t take it off just yet.” And Obi-Wan climbs onto the bed beside Anakin. He cups Anakin’s cheek with one hand and leans in to kiss the tip of Anakin’s nose.

“Obi-Wan, I want you to have me. I want you to take me tonight,” Anakin says, desire seeping into his voice as he speaks his request.

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything. He simply nods his assent and moves farther down on the bed before pulling up the hem of Anakin’s garment so it’s around Anakin’s thighs. He grips Anakin’s knees, spreading Anakin’s legs to reveal Anakin’s hardening cock.

“Oh, Obi-Wan, please touch me,” Anakin all but whines, spreading his legs wider as Obi-Wan leans in.

“I will, dear one. Would you be so kind as to hand me that vial on your night table?”

Anakin looks over to his night table. That vial was never there before, but he doesn’t comment on it as he hands it to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan coats his fingers in the substance he pours from it and prods at Anakin’s entrance with his index finger.

“I’m ready, Obi-Wan. I promise.”

Obi-Wan nods and gently slides his finger inside Anakin. The stretch is slight, and Anakin pushes his hips forward a bit to get more out of the friction. Obi-Wan slowly moves his finger in and out of Anakin, watching Anakin’s face, presumably for any signs of discomfort.

“How does that feel, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, obviously going slowly for Anakin’s benefit, and he looks at Anakin with questioning eyes, his finger stilling as he voices his question.

“It’s good, Obi-Wan; please keep going. I can handle another one,” Anakin says, already feeling the edges of his voice growing ragged as he speaks. Obi-Wan smiles and slides another finger in alongside the first one, and he scissors his fingers apart slowly, watching Anakin intently the entire time. Anakin squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. The stretch is good, it’s oh so good, but he needs something _more_ , something to push him further towards that edge he wants so badly to jump from.

Obi-Wan must sense Anakin’s desire before Anakin opens his mouth to speak, because he’s suddenly curling his fingers inside Anakin, brushing up against a spot that makes Anakin’s toes curl and his hands reach to claw at the bedding around him. He tries to spread his legs wider, but the gown still on his body prevents it, and he whines.

“Why can I not take this off, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks, reaching for the hem of his gown and gripping it with the intention of pulling it over his head.; but Obi-Wan reaches his free hand out and places it atop Anakin’s, stilling his motions. Instead, Obi-Wan lifts the gown so its skirt is around Anakin’s waist, the whole thing bunched up around him.

“Ah, ah, ah, dear one. I want you to keep it on. After all, you look so pretty in it. Let me enjoy you like this a while longer, my Prince,” Obi-Wan says, now carefully sliding a third finger into Anakin, the stretch of it so delightful, Anakin throws his head back and moans, exposing the line of his neck. He feels Obi-Wan’s hand stop moving, and he lifts his head back up, looking quizzically at him for an answer.

Obi-Wan appears as though his entire mind is recalibrating itself, his eyes bright as if he’d just seen the first sunrise, his mouth slightly open in awe. He slides his fingers out of Anakin wordlessly and reaches to slick up his cock before climbing on top of Anakin and positioning his cock at Anakin’s entrance gently.

“Do you have _any idea_ how deeply I want this, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks, nibbling at Anakin’s ear lobe, taking it between his teeth and tugging gently as Anakin gasps.

“N-no, I don’t,” Anakin says, feeling a great deal like someone or something has sucked the ability for a creative or meaningful response right out of him. Obi-Wan prods at Anakin’s entrance while sucking a mark onto Anakin’s neck, then grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth, not biting down but alerting Anakin to the fact that he _could_.

“And now that you have me, do you want it? Do you want me to pleasure you until you’re crying, tears streaming down your face as you beg for more, your head a whirlwind of unfinished thoughts that may never visit you again? Do you want me to take that cacophony within your mind and quiet it in one fell swoop? Anakin, do you want me to fuck you?” 

Anakin can tell Obi-Wan is waiting for his verbal consent, but he’s so overwhelmed by the weight of the words tumbling from Obi-Wan’s mouth that he can only nod, unable to speak. Obi-Wan smiles fondly and shakes his head slightly.

“Oh, Anakin. Use your words, darling.”

Anakin looks into Obi-Wan’s eyes, and he suddenly feels as though this is different from any other dream he’s had. It’s more _material_ somehow. So he looks Obi-Wan in the eyes and says, “Yes, Obi-Wan. I want you to fuck me.”

Obi-Wan smiles, now tucking a strand of hair behind Anakin’s ear before pushing the head of his cock inside him. The stretch is _exquisite_ , Anakin feeling like his body is being broken in in the best of ways, and he lets a soft, “Oh, Obi-Wan, that’s good,” fall from his lips. Obi-Wan looks at him for any signs of discomfort, presumably, and leans in to whisper in Anakin’s ear as he pushes in a little further.

“Sometimes, my sweet Prince, all I think about is you,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin shivers, the intensity of Obi-Wan’s desire for him piercing into his soul and flooding him with heat like a blazing fire has just been placed under his feet, a fire that will leave no ashes in its wake.

Anakin is reeling from the sensation of having Obi-Wan inside him in this way, and he is acutely aware of his heartbeat as his heart hammers against his chest. He opens his mouth to speak, but Obi-Wan now pushes all the way inside him, his cock reaching farther than Anakin thought it would, filling him up _perfectly_ , just the way he’d like. It’s strange, there’s something about Obi-Wan that feels even more familiar than usual, but in the wake of his mounting pleasure, Anakin chooses to tuck that thought away for further investigation at a later time.

“Are you alright, dear one?” Obi-Wan’s voice is a silver dagger slicing through Anakin’s thoughts, prompting him to take himself back to the moment.

Anakin nods, squirming a little bit as he adjusts to the pressure of Obi-Wan’s cock, his hands reaching out to gently grip the bedsheets for some stability of mind. He opens his mouth and says, “I’m more than alright, Obi-Wan. I’m just...getting used to it. If you’ll give me a second…”

“Of course, my darling,” Obi-Wan replies, not making any motion to move as he leans down to kiss Anakin’s forehead lightly. Anakin feels his lips like the press of rose petals against his skin, soft and smooth beyond all else, and he lets his eyes fall shut.

“Ah,” Anakin sighs, finally relaxed into the feeling of Obi-Wan’s cock so far inside him. He moves his hips as much as he can, experimentally, and feels pleasure shoot up his spine like fresh lightning striking the ground, a wordless moan escaping his lips as he lifts his hips a bit off the bed. The thin gown moves against the skin, scratching at his nipples in a way that’s not at all unpleasant.

“That’s it, darling Prince. So good for me. Do you want me to make it a little easier for you?” Obi-Wan asks, running a hand down Anakin’s side and gripping one of his hips.

“Oh yes, _please_ , Obi-Wan. I can’t-I can’t fight it; I need you to fuck me right now,” Anakin all but whines, the pitch of his voice climbing higher and higher as his pleasure increases.

Obi-Wan looks down at Anakin, and Anakin suddenly sees him for what he is: divine, unparalleled, something ancient and proud and beautiful, gracing Anakin with his presence and his love like an angel spreading its wings over a devout worshiper. And oh, Anakin wants to worship at the shrine that is Obi-Wan. He wants every part of it. He wants to build the altar, wants to put each stone in its rightful place before he kneels at his crude creation and calls upon Obi-Wan to bless him. For a moment, it seems Obi-Wan wants to say something very solemn, but the moment passes like a puff of dandelion on the summer wind. All Anakin knows is that Obi-Wan is slowly pulling out of him.

“You do want it, don’t you, sweet Prince? You want me to fuck you, fill you up with my cock until all you can feel is the motion of our bodies and all you can see is the light in my eyes. You want me to take you, to mold you into something new, _refine you_ in the divine flame of pleasure until you’re screaming for more yet not knowing exactly how to voice what it is you’re requesting. But I will know, my dearest. I always know.” And with that said, Obi-Wan kisses Anakin on the cheek before pushing all the way back inside him.

“Obi-Wan, yes, I want that. I want you. I want you to keep fucking me until I-until I can’t remember my name,” Anakin pants, needing so much more than what he’s currently being given, his soul clawing at the walls of his body, hunting for more pleasure, snarling when it realizes Obi-Wan has only barely moved. But as soon as Anakin really looks into Obi-Wan’s gentle eyes, all frantic energy within him bleeds out, his restlessness flushed out of him like dirty water by a pure river. Obi-Wan is moving ever so slowly, pushing back inside Anakin and then pulling out, and Anakin can sense what Obi-Wan wants. Obi-Wan wants for Anakin to just let it happen, let himself be swept up in the current of Obi-Wan’s love and carried out to the sea of his devotion, letting his body hang limp among the waves.

“Dear one, what is your name?” Obi-Wan asks, a somewhat amused expression on his face.

“Anakin. My name is Anakin,” Anakin says, willing to play along with whatever little game Obi-Wan has hatched in his head.

“You’re so good for me Anakin. So good,” Obi-Wan says, and he thrusts into Anakin harder than before, his hand tightening on Anakin’s hip, blunt fingernails digging into tanned flesh. 

“I am, always good for you. Just for you,” Anakin hurries to say, wanting to take all the love in his heart and pour it into those words, letting them bathe Obi-Wan in the intensity of Anakin’s devotion.

Obi-Wan thrusts harder, and his face is the face of a man utterly concentrated on the task at hand. A few strands of his hair fall into his face, and Anakin knows Obi-Wan could brush them out of the way if only he released his hold on Anakin’s hip, but something tells him Obi-Wan very deliberately is choosing to retain all forms of connection between him and Anakin as he weaves their existences together in this way.

“Anakin, do you feel that?” Obi-Wan asks, lazily thrusting in and out as a smile spreads over his face.

“Feel what?” Anakin can tell his grasp on coherence is slipping, as if he’s hanging from a cliff by one hand and one by one, his fingers are releasing their grip on the rock.

“We’re so close, Anakin. Who’s to say where I end and you begin?” Obi-Wan punctuates his statement with a firm thrust that has Anakin’s toes curling and his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment as his eyes roll back in his head.

“I don’t know,” Anakin says, not knowing how else to answer. All that matters is how he can feel himself stretch around Obi-Wan’s cock, how his body welcomes Obi-Wan in and greedily clings to him, drinking in every touch, every glance, every sensation.

Obi-Wan leans in close, his lips brushing against Anakin’s ear as he says, “Oh, my darling, we were meant for each other. We were made for this moment. Your body accepting me so sweetly, singing its joy in your pretty noises, you were _made for this,_ dear one. Just as I was made for you. Tell me, what is your name?”

Anakin’s breath stutters a bit and he feels himself tremble as he answers, “A-Anakin.” He does not attempt to say more, for the tides of pleasure are washing over him and murmuring so delightfully to him that he can leave his words by the shore and come swim out in the endless expanse of water, lose himself it its depth.

“Hmm...so it is,” Obi-Wan answers. “But I believe that doesn’t help us with your request. Perhaps I need to try a different approach.” And Obi-Wan angles himself slightly differently before pushing into Anakin again.

“Ah! Oh!” Anakin cries, his back arching, shooting up off the bed as his hands fist in the sheets so tightly he’s afraid he may rip them. Obi-Wan is brushing up against something that’s absolutely marvelous, and Anakin grinds his hips down, hoping to get more of that delicious friction. Obi-Wan halts his movements, letting Anakin move as best as he can, Anakin whimpering slightly as he seeks out that which feels more than remarkable.

“That was, that was amazing, Obi-Wan. Please, I need more. Please give it to me like that again,” Anakin whines, but Obi-Wan isn’t moving yet. He looks down at Anakin with love in his eyes, but he stays still.

“Please, Obi-Wan. I need it. Oh please give it to me.” Anakin is sounding more desperate with every syllable that falls from his lips, trying to fuck himself on Obi-Wan’s cock and moaning every time he gets some stimulation. He can feel how slick everything is, his cock hard and leaking, dripping precome onto his stomach, his hole stretched and wet around Obi-Wan’s cock, aching to be fucked into. His whole body is a wave of heat, undulating almost of its own accord as his chest heaves and he begs Obi-Wan to just _move_.

“You look so pretty when you’re like this for me,” Obi-Wan muses as he squeezes Anakin’s hip with his hand, thumb brushing over Anakin’s hipbone. “Pliant, all ready for me, fucking yourself on my cock as if that would be enough to make you come. We both know it’s not, darling.” And Obi-Wan suddenly pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back in, getting that perfect angle and touching Anakin’s prostate, making Anakin feel like he’s the first star on a summer night.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Anakin whimpers as Obi-Wan grips him, thrusting into him with purpose now. He spreads his legs impossibly wider, his toes curling, his entire body becoming a ball of delicious tension as Obi-Wan thrusts into him, slow and deep, hitting his prostate with each movement as Anakin keens and tries to retain his consciousness, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling down over his warm cheeks as Obi-Wan fucks him so _perfectly._

“How’s that, my sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan asks, smiling down at Anakin like Anakin’s made of stardust and Obi-Wan is here to form him into something new and glorious.

“G-good,” Anakin manages. His words get caught in his throat as he continues, “I-I…” 

“You what, dear one? You forgot your name already?” Obi-Wan teases, pushing into Anakin and groaning a little as he does so, but not breaking eye contact. Anakin shudders. Something about the intimacy of their eye contact, the fact that Obi-Wan’s eyes are trained on Anakin’s expressions while Obi-Wan’s cock is inside him has Anakin feeling very exposed, but not in a negative way at all. He feels like molten metal before the hands of a Master, ready to be forged.

“Anakin. It’s Anakin,” Anakin gasps, trying his best to smirk at his accomplishment and failing when Obi-Wan grinds against his prostate for a moment, the sensation akin to catching a sunbeam and letting it permeate his entire body until his very soul is nothing but a vessel of light.

“I thought you might say that, darling. I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer for tonight.” And Obi-Wan grabs Anakin’s ankles, one after the other, and slings Anakin’s legs over his shoulders, so Obi-Wan’s head is between Anakin’s legs and the angle is entirely new. Anakin feels more naked than ever, even still partially clothed. his hole clenching down on Obi-Wan’s cock as excitement rushes through him.

“Obi-Wan, that’s good,” Anakin says, unsure of how else to voice the fact that his nerves feel like a series of sparks right now, lit aflame by Obi-Wan’s touch.

"I thought you might like that,” Obi-Wan says, and he reaches a hand down to massage Anakin’s rim with his fingers. Anakin keens at the added sensation, wishing he could watch Obi-Wan touching him like this, wanting to ask for more but not knowing exactly what to ask for. All he knows is that the world is calm around them while he himself is a raging fire.

“I can’t-I can’t _breathe_ it’s so good,” Anakin gasps, slurring his words as the edges of his vision turn black with his repeated shallow breaths and willing himself to calm down, to breathe in deep and exhale, letting his lungs drink in the air they so desperately need. Obi-Wan moves his hand from touching Anakin to give him some respite from the almost incomprehensible pleasure he feels.

“There you are, my dearest. Breathe deep while I fuck you. I promise it will make things even better,” Obi-Wan says, now thrusting into Anakin at a moderate pace.

Anakin nods and says, “Will you go faster? I promise I can take it now.” He knows if Obi-Wan goes faster, he’ll come all over his stomach and clench down on Obi-Wan until he comes, too. And the very thought of that, the thought of Obi-Wan watching as Anakin’s cock jerks and Anakin moans and begs and grabs at him like holding on to him would save him from anything, that thought sweeps through Anakin’s mind so thoroughly that he almost doesn’t hear when Obi-Wan speaks.

Obi-Wan must agree to go faster, because his pace increases and Anakin finds himself letting his mouth hang open, gripping Obi-Wan’s shoulders with his hands, holding on to him until his body is almost folded in half and the muscles in his stomach are screaming. But the pain is delectable, and Anakin hangs onto the moments between each brush against his prostate, saving them in his palace of memories. Because when Obi-Wan touches Anakin’s prostate, there is no time for filing away future memories. There is only light and heat and bliss.

“I’ll ask you again. What is your name, my sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan says, now thrusting into Anakin at a punishing pace, but with all the devotion in the world writ in his eyes.

“A-A-ah,” is all Anakin can manage, not particularly interested in his name at the moment, his body jolted again and again by the electric sensation of Obi-Wan’s cock against that wonderful spot inside of him. Obi-Wan looks pleased. Anakin can only let himself go all but limp, feeling Obi-Wan’s hands as they roam across his body, Obi-Wan’s cock as it pushes so deep inside him he wants to burst, and Obi-Wan’s love, blossoming between them like a flower that returns each spring, unhindered by the bitterness of winter. Obi-Wan slows a little to allow Anakin to regain some coherence.

“I-Obi-Wan, I’m gonna _come_. Oh it’s so good, please, ah, make me come,” Anakin says, his hands tightening their grip on Obi-Wan’s shoulders as his cock leaks a mess onto his stomach, aching to be touched. But Anakin doesn’t want it like that. He makes no move to touch himself.

“You can touch your pretty cock, dear one. Nothing is stopping you,” Obi-Wan croons, now realizing how close Anakin is.

Anakin lets out a whine. “I don’t _want_ to. I want, I want to come just from your cock inside me. Please, please Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes light up as he says, “You want to come on my cock like a good little Prince, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m so good for you. And you’re so deep in me, _fuck_ , I need it.” Anakin knows he’s just babbling now, but he grinds down against Obi-Wan and throws his head back as he feels himself reaching that precipice.

Anakin falls over the edge of orgasm, and it’s like swimming in a lilac hued pool. It’s sweet and lovely and oh so _right_. He can feel Obi-Wan moving inside him, fucking him through it as he sighs quietly. No screams like he expected. He’s just traipsing through a field of violets and falling down within their fragrance. He feels warmth dripping on his stomach through the gown, and he giggles a little, now looking back at Obi-Wan, who has stilled his movements. 

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asks, and when Anakin nods, Obi-Wan keeps thrusting inside him. Now it’s like nothing Anakin’s ever felt. It’s bliss. It’s torture. It’s far too much and not nearly enough all at once, and he writhes, his prostate feeling completely overstimulated. Yet he wants it to continue.

“Oh, I’m so _sensitive_ ,” he whimpers, his voice cracking in the middle like a weak reed by the riverside, blown in half by a gust of wind. He feels everything so much more severely now. His hole clenches down on Obi-Wan’s cock over and over again as he wriggles a bit, moving his hips back and forth so as to fuck Obi-Wan’s cock further into him.

“You’re _perfect_ ,” Obi-Wan gasps, and then Anakin feels the faint sensation of warmth within him. He sighs again, imagining how it will look when Obi-Wan’s come is dripping out of him, and they both know Anakin is his in every way. 

\---

“Oh, fuck, _Obi-Wan_.” Anakin hears his own voice echo through his bedchamber and he shoots up in bed, hoping to find Obi-Wan there beside him. It’s dark in his room, and he looks out through the window and sees stars hng in the sky like tiny diamonds suspended in space. He also notices something far less poetic: the gown he’s wearing is wet with come. He remembers how Obi-Wan bunched up the gown and pulled it up around his hips so he could fuck into him more easily and he shivers, recalling the feeling of Obi-Wan’s cock inside him. He can feel himself almost getting hard again, but he decides to check the book before he does anything else, wondering what it may show to him.

Retrieving the book, he opens to the dedication page.

_To my sweet Prince._

The dedication is simple, but Anakin feels a shudder rush through him at the term of endearment, his mind immediately thinking of how Obi-Wan called him that while he touched him, while he made him feel like a burning star, almost deadly in its brilliance. Anakin turns the page. It is a picture of Obi-Wan dressed in white, a crown of flowers upon his head, carrying a man in his arms. The man’s head is buried in Obi-Wan’s shoulder, so Anakin cannot see his face, but he knows it to be himself. 

_There are those stories which have been told, those which are in progress, and those that have yet to be uttered. We are in the middle of our story, dear one. Are you enjoying yourself? For as with all things, grief must be tempered with happiness, trials and tribulations with enjoyment. I do hope we get to see this part of the story._

Anakin studies the writing and the picture on the page, his heart fluttering, his mind trying to grasp exactly what he is feeling but having it slip away like wet soap in the hands of a bather. He knows for certain this image hasn’t occurred yet, but something about it feels oh so very familiar. He’s definitely been in Obi-Wan’s arms before. But he’s never been. Obi-Wan has never held him, never caressed him but within dreams and in some phantom way outside of those dreams. Anakin shakes his head, confused yet feeling like there’s something definite that he’s missing, some crucial aspect of this puzzle he has yet to uncover.

“Don’t fret, dear one. You’re doing spectacularly.” Obi-Wan’s voice is warm as a pool of summer water kissed by the sun, and Anakin sees Obi-Wan out of the corner of his eye, dressed in deep red robes and crowned with white flowers, the crimson fabric flowing about him like a waterfall.

“Obi-Wan! You’ll have to forgive me; I need to clean myself off.” Anakin knows it’s silly, knows that Obi-Wan is the reason he needs to be cleaned in the first place, but he cannot stop heat from rising in his cheeks as he remembers exactly why he needs to clean himself, and he resists the urge to duck his head in shyness.

“There is nothing to forgive, dear one. Do what you feel you must.” And Anakin feels as if a phantom hand caresses his cheek, knowing in his heart that it is Obi-Wan who touches him.

Anakin climbs out of bed, standing up and leaving the book open on his bed. He walks over to the basin of water kept in his quarters and pulls the gown over his head, dropping it on the floor to be picked up later when he is finished freshening himself up. He does not see the words on the page of the book as they change.

_They were happy. They loved each other more than any words can tell, more than any language can adequately describe. But even now, as their happiness mounts, as their trust in each other grows, the Dark One plots anew to destroy that which he hates most: true love._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was said amongst the servants of the castle that sometimes the young Prince could be found at windowside, gazing longingly upon the moat and the meadow as the sun set. The wind would rustle with his name, the last of daylight would caress his cheeks, and the servants would hear the chuckle of the deity they no longer knew…_

_It was said amongst the servants of the castle that sometimes the young Prince could be found at windowside, gazing longingly upon the moat and the meadow as the sun set. The wind would rustle with his name, the last of daylight would caress his cheeks, and the servants would hear the chuckle of the deity they no longer knew…_

—

Anakin strides out of the study with a massive yawn, the untitled book safely tucked in a bag under his arm.

_Perhaps you shouldn’t have let your attention wander so, darling._ Obi-Wan’s voice swirls smooth and gentle in his ears, and Anakin could swear he sees a flash of snow-white out of the corner of his eyes, a vivid crown of flowers. He has long learned not to try to look, not to chase after the phantasm that is Obi-Wan’s immaterial presence. It is as much a lesson in patience as his confinement has been: to hold Obi-Wan in his heart without seeking to grasp at him with his hands.

_I would have, if the things I study weren’t so boring_ , Anakin answers without having to utter a word aloud, knowing Obi-Wan could hear the thoughts that Anakin wants him to hear. _All those old kings and queens are long dead… How could you expect their stories to speak to me?_

A phantom hand, warm like sunlight, runs down his arm and gently twines with his own. Anakin feels Obi-Wan’s smile in his heart, an image in his mind’s eye rather than his peripheral vision. _My dear young Prince, you must know that those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it. How many battles have you learned about? How many lands have been conquered, cities sacked, innocent people fallen? Surely you would not wish that upon your subjects? I have seen one too many tragedies befall a ruler who overlooks what the past can teach them._

_You are starting to sound like my tutor, Obi-Wan._ Anakin tilts his head, still smiling, yet contemplative. _Well, alright, you make a fair point. I’m sure I need to be as wise and kind as I could when I rule. But..._ He makes a turn and starts down a flight of granite stairs. _I study geography and trade and all these cursive things. It never seems like it will amount to anything._

There is a pensive hum that quickly turns into a sigh, before all of those gentle sounds are lost in Anakin’s lone footsteps. _At the core of all the things you learn, that may seem esoteric to you, lies one purpose: to prevent war. Without peace there can be no prosperity. I know all of it is difficult to take in when you are so young, beloved. I know how it was once, to have barely twenty springs under your belt. The kingdom will be yours one day, Anakin, and it stretches far larger than your eyes could see from one vantage point. It is only reasonable that you make up for it by enriching your knowledge. Such is the duty of the ruler you will be._

_Why do I get the feeling that it will not be enough? One moment I feel like peace is never-ending; the next I feel like threats are imminent. I have learned…_ He pauses, heart suddenly thrumming. _I have learned that fairness is not a thing to be taken for granted. That mute kitchen boy did not wrong me on his own volition, and yet I almost took his life. I was crown prince, and yet I was still confined in the high tower for doing nothing wrong. If I were a common man, how much longer would I have been imprisoned? If I were not a prince, how would I have been treated in that cell? How kind of a ruler could I ever be, Obi-Wan, if those like me, the Advisor or the High Priest could commit atrocious unfairness without anybody opposing, without ourselves even knowing?_

Anakin steps down from the stairs, the click of his boots on the floor echoes through the hall like an exclamation point. Warmth wraps around his torso like loving arms, and Anakin feels the tenderest fondness seeping under his skin. A kiss is planted into his hair, brief as a breeze.

_A bold inquiry, dear one,_ warns Obi-Wan, _but the most noble causes oft come from the most daring questions._ And his voice is so full of pride it nearly makes Anakin stagger in his step, and fills him with the unrelenting urge to hold this man to his chest - if only he could.

_And what am I to do with those questions?_ Anakin laughs faintly, feeling so hot around the neck all of a sudden from the fire in his own words. His ideas are almost blasphemous, he knows: questioning the divine rule, questioning the very authority that he is to inherit some day. If a noble were to hear this, they would call him a danger or a fool; even his father might grimace. Yet Obi-Wan does not belittle him.

_Acquaint yourself with the plight of the unfortunate. You will see that loyalty inspired stands much stauncher than obeisance imposed._ His voice begins to fade, just as Anakin nears the dining hall, where there is company. _Start small, Anakin._

Just as Anakin turns a corner, he sees a familiar kitchen boy dart away.

—

It takes Anakin another day to properly get to the mute boy, between his studies with the books and training with the blade. He opts not to summon the boy via another servant; he waits near the kitchens until he comes across the boy, hurrying into the corridor.

“Hello,” Anakin begins, smiling. The boy whips around and freezes, eyes wide and knuckles blanched with obvious fear. Anakin can hardly blame him for it. “May we talk? I once promised not to hurt you, and I keep my word still.”

The boy hesitates, hands mid-air in an aborted motion. His eyes are downcast.

“Is that how you communicate? By making signs?”

The boy shyly looks up, and nods, but then shakes his head, and then quickly looks away, rubbing his neck. The confusing sequence does not deter Anakin; he crouches down to the boy’s level, holding his shoulders. “Then how about we make an exchange? You show me your signs and I will show you how to read and write. Do you want that?”

The boy finally looks at him now, bright, surprised eyes meeting his gaze. He purses his lips, tugging at the hem of his tunic. He nervously points at the kitchens, then at himself, then puts his thumb and forefinger together on both hands and links the loops together, tugging a bit as if mimicking chains that cannot be broken.

“Oh, you can’t leave,” Anakin infers, to which the boy nods. “What if you become my personal servant? How about that?”

It’s the first time Anakin has seen the boy smile.

—

_To my chivalrous love._

In the candlelight, the ink glitters like it has been mixed with gold dust. Anakin turns the pages, the familiar excitement and fondness warming his chest. It occurs to him that he has never put a bookmark in there, and yet every time he opens the book, he will find the story where he left off.

_The children recognized Obi-Wan Kenobi by sight. He always came to them when the night had fallen and the candles had been blown off. He was as warm as spring and as beautiful as autumn; and brought with him the fruits of summer, because he knew orphans like them hardly ever had their bellies full. He would gather them all up under his great white cape, soft as mink, and captured their attention with the most riveting tales that could be told before the fireplace on a winter night._

_It was only a matter of time before he brought them parchment and ink, and taught them how to write down all the things they cherished too much to let slip from their memories. And the children rejoiced._

“Did this all happen, Obi-Wan?” Anakin lays his head down on his forearm, one finger idly tracing the illustration of Obi-Wan in the middle of a room, with children sprawled out all around him, beginning to write their very first letters. He could feel his eyes stinging, drooping, as the candle flickers.

_Quite a few times,_ Obi-Wan answers, the warmth of his hand just about at the back of Anakin’s neck. _In a land far, far away from here._ Anakin smiles, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again - or rather, when he thinks he opens them again, Obi-Wan is there, wearing the same pale soft robes as he did in the illustrations, and looks at him with the same kind, patient eyes. And he knows he has slipped into the realm of dreams.

“I cannot imagine orphans who have to fend for themselves in an abandoned shed, in my kingdom.” Anakin holds up his arms, and his love gently lies down beside him, cradling him close. “You’re right, Obi-Wan, I should do everything I can to prevent wars, so that no child would lose their parents like this.” 

“Oh, Anakin. The unfortunate truth is that, even without wars…” Fingers run through his hair as Obi-Wan trails off. “You have been teaching the mute boy for quite some time, haven’t you? What do you know about him?”

Anakin nods. “His name is Sors. Nobody ever tried to speak to him, except for one old cook in the kitchens who taught him how to sign; but the old cook passed away two years ago. Sors had been living in the castle for a long time. His parents sent him here when he was about five years old… Which is very young,” he adds quickly, “so I asked him why. He told me, um…” Anakin signs, as the boy did - points to his mouth, then taps his fingertips together several times. “I don’t understand yet. He couldn’t explain, either, and we moved on.”

Obi-Wan watches him pensively for a long moment. “I believe he meant to say, ‘too many mouths’. It isn’t an uncommon practice for parents to send away the children that they could not feed, in hopes that said children would earn their own meals working for a noble.”

“Truly?” Anakin furrows his brows. “That is awful. I…” He should have figured, maybe. He simply hasn’t thought of this often enough, that is true. Yet another unfairness in a kingdom that he is to rule one day. How is he ever going to correct them all? With the laws of trade and the exchange rates of coins? “I’ve never been taught about the poor in this manner. I thought if the realm prospers, everybody will. I thought the priests tend to the poor.” Oh, but if the High Priest was such a man of little honor... Anakin sighs, raising his eyes to his divine lover. “I want to do something about this. But I don’t know what to do, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan strokes his hair back. “I would first plead with you not to be impatient, Anakin, for you would only torment yourself if you expect to right all wrongs with one stroke of the hand. That being said,” he squeezes Anakin’s nape and plants a soft kiss on his forehead, and speaks with the wisdom of a man who has lived through many mortal lifetimes, “I could offer you an idea or two.”

“Please.” Anakin looks up, bright-eyed. “Obi-Wan, tell me.”

_...And the children rejoiced once more, when gentle-voiced Obi-Wan whispered, “There is somebody on the way.” The sun was rising, the crack of dawn through a crack of the curtains. “Somebody who shall care. Somebody who shall bring light to your world.”_

—

Under the high, arched ceilings of their private dining room, even the smallest sounds reverberate. The king wipes at his brows every once in a while, and refuses when a serving maid brings the flask of wine over to refill his glass. Anakin eats half-heartedly, watching his father for nearly all of the meal before he musters up the courage to speak of his endeavor.

“Father, I am thinking of making a small trip.”

“A trip, you say,” his father echoes, glancing up at him with one quirked eyebrow before looking down once more at his plate. “What sort of trip do you have in mind?”

Anakin takes a deep breath. The book of Obi-Wan is warm inside the bag behind him. “I would like to travel the kingdom and visit the poor.”

His father straightens up now, surprise clear in his eyes. “Anakin, child,” he begins, and now skepticism seeps in as he leans forward, but Anakin is not about to relent. “Wherever did you get such an idea?”

“I read, Father.” 

“Certainly you do not mean that storybook of yours?” There is a glimmer of humor in his father’s eyes that speak of levity.

Anakin only smiles. “Yes, but not only. I have been taught that to be a good ruler, one must know one’s people, their hardships and their desires.”

“My child, a ruler does not come to the troubled. The troubled come to you with their grievances. I hold court for that reason - which you must have noticed if you have been paying attention while attending at all.”

“I have.” Anakin nods, despite that note of reproach. “But I am no ruler, am I not? Father, the troubled come to _you_. I am only learning, and I cannot learn all I need to know just from reading books and listening to the lords alone. Please, Father. I would like to honor my own fortune by extending my generosity to the unfortunate.”

There’s a long silence, before the king’s expression softens. “Your mother did always insist on charity work, despite her health. The gods know I couldn’t convince her to rest, love her as I did.” He sighs, and gives Anakin a most gentle smile. “You truly are your mother’s child.”

A smile curves across Anakin’s lips as well, in shared sentimentality. 

—

Before Anakin sets out on his task, Lord Palpatine catches wind of his plans and counsels him to seek out the wisdom of the nobles. “They have been with their small folk for more than you have, my young Prince. Surely they may give you a clue or two as two what they need for their regions,” says the Advisor so very sweetly. But the lords are a disappointing lot: all fancy words and fleeting promises and empty declarations of their loyalty to the throne, when asked of the prosperity of their regions, their people.

His young servant, Sors, who has gotten much more fluent in reading and writing only in the span of a month, seems to have a better idea. The boy tells Anakin of his parents in the eastern part of the kingdom. The noble Houses of the east are staggeringly rich, Anakin recalls, which makes the contrast all the more startling when Sors details to him how villagers toil away in the mills and the mines and come home to empty stomachs and withering children. It gives the Prince the idea of seeking out others in the roster of the castle. He asks them of their past, their home; the barren snowlands where some of them spend their curt, glum childhood; the rocky mountains where their parents raised them and their ten siblings; and even just outside the citadel, there are orphans who were brought up with little to scrape by. Not all of the servants he spoke to were so miserable growing up - some seem fond when they tell him old tales - but it doesn’t take him long to compile an ample list of places to visit.

“I just don’t know what to bring them,” Anakin says, convening with Obi-Wan upon a dream. “Should I make the trip twice?”

“The bare necessities for the orphans in the city,” Obi-Wan answers, “would be milk, bread, and clothing - along with shelter, if theirs is currently inadequate. Allow them to make their request, Anakin, and they will tell you what else they need.”

So Anakin does just that: he commands wagons to be prepared, bread to be made and milk to be stored. He adamantly refuses to be strung along inside a carriage like a fragile elder. A few days later, he departs at dawn, leading his party on horseback, his storybook carefully wrapped up inside a backpack. Obi-Wan’s arms are warm around him in a lover’s embrace, as though he is sharing Anakin’s seat in the saddle.

The citadel is as Anakin remembers it, the marketplace bright and bustling, the bell towers and chapels regal and elegant. The shadow of the cathedral tower does send shudders up his spine, but only briefly. _It is still a beautiful construction_ , whispers Obi-Wan by his ears, _not to be tainted with memories of the wrongs of men, I should hope_ , so Anakin keeps his head up and holds the reins tight. With only a few knights guarding him, his personal servant, the mute boy, riding a mule just beside him, and wagons of goods of necessities pulled along behind him, the prince makes for a gentle sight, not quite a show of force nor a formal procession. His subjects pass him by and bow at him; he smiles at them in response. Children, who are still innocent enough to be brave, smile back at him.

But as he threads his way out of the heart of the citadel, the scenery changes. Houses stoop lower, bearing unpainted flanks of bare red bricks as opposed to the smooth, sturdy stones of the bell tower, and doors made of planks copped together rather than the thick heavy hardwood of the cathedral. The streets are earthen and damp, with the occasional puddle of sludge and mud. The children are more often barefoot, and they flit away at the sound of hooves, wide eyes on dirt-streaked faces staring out from behind door cracks. Anakin’s brows knit together as he scans around, lips pressed together.

_Don’t be deterred by their fear,_ Obi-Wan reminds him, and the wind that breezes through Anakin’s hair feels like gentle fingers. _They never knew any better. You will have to earn their love, Anakin._

The door to the orphanage lies receded at the dead end of a narrow alley. The smell of milk on a child’s breath sours the air, and a faint stench of sick wafts out intermittently. Somewhere inside, a door slams shut. Anakin dismounts, holding up a hand to his men. “Wait here.”

“But, my Prince…”

Anakin tosses a smile over his shoulder. “I’ll be fine.”

He knocks on the door alone, with his men and his horses far behind. It takes a long moment for the gates to gingerly part, and a woman wrapped in layers of patchy, threadbare clothing appears. “M’lord?” She looks up at him, sunken eyes bright with apprehension when she recognizes him. “I’m sorry, my Prince, I…”

“I’m here to help,” Anakin hushes. “I’ve heard of how the children barely have food on the table, and you have nothing to nurse the infants. So if you would let me, I brought something for the orphans...”

The caretaking woman opens the doors to a dark, shallow hallway and fogged, cracked windows; a barely furnished space devoid of light and warmth. At the creak of the door, all the children go scuttling, hiding behind the few chairs and tables there are, or huddle beside the unlit fireplace. Anakin sighs, nods at the woman, and comes back out to signal his men in.

The alley is barely large enough for the wagons to enter. They carry the bread in, basket by basket, the milk can by can, helping the caretakers stock up the food in their meager pantry. Anakin takes on his own basket and kneels before the orphans. The children patter towards him on hesitant feet, and there is nothing like the joy that unfurls in his chest when their too-thin hands rise towards him and touch his own. He gives them each an aptly sized bun, having to come back outside to the wagon twice to refill his basket before each child has had their share.

“I’ve never seen you before,” One child pipes up, shyly. The orphans are so very silent. Just like Sors, even though they are not mute. “Prince Anakin.”

Anakin chuckles. “That’s because I hardly ever come to these parts of the city. But I will do so more often, from here on.” The child just stares at him with expectant eyes. He strokes her hair back. “I promise.”

They make quick work of filling up the orphanage’s storage. The sun is burning orange at the horizon by then, signaling to him that he should return to the castle soon. 

“Come to me if you need anything,” Anakin says to the head caretaker, a hand on her arm. “Anything at all - food, shelter. Mention the prince and the doors will be open to you, alright?”

Her smile is slight, sheepish, yet brimming with gratitude.

—

His trips grow longer and longer. Anakin visits another orphanage a few hours away from the last one, and then a poor folk’s district a day’s ride from the castle, leaving his party to take rest for one night in the nearest inn before they could return; and on and on. The poor in the city begin to recognize him by face rather than by title, by the sky blue ribbon in his hair rather than the sigil on his doublet. Anakin begins to see them by their grateful smiles rather than their bowed head, by their humanity rather than their poverty. How learned would this bright child have been, were they born in a noble cradle? How beautiful would this gentle child have been, were they dressed in silk and velvet? These soot-streaked folks with dirty hands and tattered clothing and the most menial work that do not pay them half the pennies they need to put food on the table - how brilliantly would they have shined, had they been given a means to survive?

Not satisfied with limiting himself to the perimeter of the citadel, Anakin begins to plan for regions outside of the capital city - which is yet more challenging. Perishable goods are replaced with grains and dried meat, and, “If there is an agricultural hub where fresh produce and dairy can be purchased, it would be a good idea to buy from the region,” advises Obi-Wan. It takes a few moon’s turns before his first trip to the mountainous region is properly planned, the goods purchased or listed for purchase, the itinerary routed through the most populous town in the valley land. Anakin couldn’t bear to let anybody else oversee the mapping and the calculations of goods to bring. It is a lack of faith in the nobility, or maybe he simply very much enjoys doing the work with his own hands for the first time.

His father allows him to miss court most of these days, if it means keeping up with his preparations. “I have never seen you so single-minded in the study,” the king remarks one day, when Anakin has just come back from the courtyard, overseeing reports and records of goods purchase. “Perhaps I should have chosen for you a different approach - but it seems like you have done so just fine for yourself.”

Anakin smiles, but his joy is sullied by the cough that follows his father’s words, and the tired look in his eyes. The king’s appetite has been diminishing, though no healer seems to be able to figure out why. His father might be an older man, yet he has never seemed so tired at all times of the day. “Father, are you alright? You seem to be falling ill.

As always, his father’s answer to this is a mere chuckle. “It is only the changing of the season. Your hair will grey if you worry so much, my child.”

It does not assuage Anakin’s concerns in the slightest. As the day of departure draws near, he grows all the more nervous.

_I don’t know what to think, Obi-Wan._ He sighs, sinking into his mattress. _I would have postponed the trip if it wasn’t for the fact that winter is coming. But I’m not sure if I could leave my father this way - even just for a few weeks._

In the mirror, Obi-Wan is sitting by his side, squeezing his shoulder. _Speak to him, Anakin. When a person is important to you, the decision is as much theirs as it is yours._

The night before his departure, Anakin comes to his father’s chambers.

“I heard what the master healer told Advisor Palpatine about your troubled sleep, Father,” he declares, taking his seat beside his father’s bed. “I would delay my trip to stay by your side until you are cured, if needs be.”

“Oh no, my son.” The king smiles, patting his hand. “Surely you don’t consider me such a fragile old man. I will be fine.” His expression quickly softens. “You have worked hard for moons. Go, my child.”

Anakin watches him for a moment, the worry in his mind deepening every wrinkle on his father’s brows to his eyes. His father’s eyes are somewhat puffy, bloodshot, sunken with dark bags beneath. “Are you sure?”

The king cocks a brow, wryly. “Come now, Anakin. Do not act like I am on my death bed just yet. It will be years before your coronation, of that you needn’t worry.” 

“You shouldn’t say such things, Father.” Anakin leans down to kiss his father’s cheek. “I will be back very soon. The trip should not take more than a fortnight.”

He comes back to his own chamber that night with doubts and worries swirling in his mind, although he should have his rest. Not even Obi-Wan’s gentle humming can calm his racing thoughts, and by sunrise his candle has burnt down to the base, while Anakin feels like he has only closed his eyes for a beat.

He requests Sors to his chamber before he leaves. The boy has been by his side during all of these trips, and Anakin is loath to leave him behind. But this trip is long, and the boy’s loyalty to him is unmatched by any other.

He gives Sors his ink and a leather-bound tome of blank sheets. “Write down for me,” he says. “Write down all that happens, for me. My father is not well, and I…” he lowers his voice, with a sigh. “I do not trust the Lord Advisor. Not any longer. But I trust you.”

Sors makes a quick salute sign, points to both of them in quick succession, and then his fingertip draws a cross over his heart. _I vow not to fail you._

—

Two days’ ride into the trip, the prince’s party comes across a village. An atmosphere of gloom seems to drape over every face, misery weighing down on every figure, even though the land seems bountiful enough with its sprawling fields and sturdy barn houses.

“We forsook the autumn’s harvest in favor of raising more sheep this year, my Prince,” a village elder says, the lines etching into his face. “Lord Clovis told us to do so. He said he would take all of the wool before the harvest season ends, giving us back salt and grains in exchange… but just earlier this moon’s turn, he told us he would not. He said the fleece was not of the quality he demanded.”

“Now it’s almost winter, my Prince, and the merchants have all left,” another villager pipes up. “We can’t trade these now anymore, our horses are slow and the routes will be clogged by snow on the return trip.”

Anakin sits alone that night in the smallest and coldest inn chamber he has ever seen. He’s hardly eating, his eyes intent on the looking glass propped up before him. “I will make sure Lord Clovis has a stern talking-to when I come back,” he grumbles, and sighs. “What should I do right now, Obi-Wan? I can’t leave the village to starve.”

Obi-Wan hums. _You have grains and other goods. No doubt they will be needing those for the winter._

“But I mean to bring that to the mountain regions.” Anakin rests his face on his hand. “Everybody is in need. How can I help them all?”

_Anakin._ Obi-Wan’s knuckles brush down his cheeks. _You still have a trip before you. Perhaps the regions you will be passing by on your way will have something to offer, so that you may replenish your wagons._

By dawn, Anakin has made up his mind. With his knights and the two coinmaster scribes he has brought along, they look over their storage of goods, the time they have left before snow might block the way back, and the amount of grain the villagers will need to survive winter. Calculations are swiftly made. The prince calls in the village elders, and asks them to summon the villagers, one from each household. “Bring your excess wool,” says the prince, “I will take them on behalf of the crown. You will have your grains in return. You shall not starve this winter.” 

Sacks of grain and strings of dried meat are unloaded from the wagon, replaced by the much lighter skeins of wool. The people smile so bright and bow down so low while thanking his company that Anakin nearly feels tears in his eyes. While he is no longer stranger to such profound displays of gratitude, there is something heartwrenching about the joy of a population being saved from the brink of starvation. In a village as small as this one, their disappearance would just be a speck wiped off the kingdom’s map, a fallen tree in a forest for nobody to hear. And yet they were all his subjects. And yet they were all his people.

_It was a difficult choice to make_ , Anakin sends his thoughts to his divine lover, as he mounts himself once more to resume his journey. _I don’t know what awaits us ahead, but I do not want to return home now._

_A ruler’s duty is to make difficult choices,_ Obi-Wan says in his mind. _You have done well. I will always be by your side as you carry on._

They pass the border of the region and enter the riverland. There lies one of the most prosperous cities in the kingdom, with artisans, scholars and lords residing in the center and farmlands spreading out from the perimeter. It is indeed a wealthy land, perhaps even wealthier than the capital some might say.

The governess meets the prince at the very gates of the city. Pleasantries exchanged, Lady Amidala suddenly falls into a thoughtful silence.

“What troubles you, my lady?” asks Anakin, curious.

“It seems we are having a shortage of textile for some time, my Prince.” Lady Amidala sighs. “Our cotton fields twice reported failed harvests. It must have been the outburst of disease earlier this year, but I did not take measures fast enough, and the damage is done.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Anakin sees Obi-Wan’s eyes glitter in pleasant surprise.

“Well,” Anakin says, and cannot tamp down his delighted smile. “I happen to have an offer for you.”

He leads the governess to his wagons piled with soft wool. The skeins are quickly taken away, to be brought to the riverland city’s artisan villages. Their wagons are once again full with grains and smoked sausages, this time with the addition of salt and cheese. “It is our honor to lend you a hand in your quest to aid the poor, my Prince,” Amidala has said, with a smile. “Besides, these are made of such good fleece, I could see.”

The successful trade, though unplanned, sparks boldness in Anakin. He discusses with his men, but he is no longer skittish of making changes to his original itinerary. And so his trip suddenly sprouts into a much longer journey, taking a turn into the mining lands in the east, threading through villages and towns large and small, trading cheese for wine and then wine for cotton and then cotton for more meat, so and so. Where it is not urgent that the people receive the immediate goods they need, he uses the money of the crown to buy from the region, filling the pouch of the farmers and the millers and the artisans instead of fattening the pocket of the lords.

By the time the prince’s company reaches the mountains, the land has been dusted with a fresh first snow. The valley town welcomes them in; Anakin learns that he has earned himself a byname or two, throughout the kingdom. Anakin the Good. Anakin the Hero. Anakin the charity prince, who has done more work within a few moon’s turns than any noble has ever cared to in years, in a decade. Does he not remind them of the late queen? He does. He truly is her son.

When the last wagons have been emptied, the foods and clothes delivered to the very last poorest woodsman from the smaller clutters in the mountains, Anakin lets his men settle in the valley while the snow falls heavier and heavier each day. For a week or so they enjoy the valley townsfolk’s hospitality, feasting on their poultry, drinking their ale, dancing before their hearth on winter solstice. The town is a threadbare piece of cloth compared to the ornate tapestry that is royal life, and yet the festivities warm Anakin to the core, in ways he has never known before.

He spends his nights in inn quarters half the size of his bedchamber at home, feeling no need to complain. Why must he, when in the candlelight he can sense the outline of Obi-Wan’s body, the warmth of his breath fanning over his skin, and as soon as sleep overcomes him, his lover would find him naked and wanting?

In his dream, they lie entangled like twisting vines, like braided cords, like ancient river dragons. Sated, Anakin tucks himself into Obi-Wan’s figure, face in the crook of his neck and arms looped around his waist. They share heartbeats for a few moments, bare skin to bare skin, before Obi-Wan speaks up again, in a more sober tone. “...The snowfall might lighten in a few days. The roads will no longer be blocked, at least for a few days.”

“Oh, _Obi-Wan_.” Anakin laughs breathily, drawing back just enough to kiss him lazily on the lips. “Why must you speak of snow and blocked roads while you’re abed with me?”

“Because I care for your safety, sweet prince,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his lips, hands trailing down his spine. “You should take the opportunity to leave soon. It isn’t wise to be away from the capital for too long.”

“It will be alright,” Anakin placates, plying him with kisses peppered along his jaws. “We will always have a place to stay, at this rate.” Obi-Wan heaves out a sigh, and Anakin looks up with a pout. “Don’t you trust me?”

Obi-Wan regards him for a long moment, before his eyes soften. He presses his lips to Anakin’s forehead. “I do. I trust you far too much.”

“Stay with me for a little longer, Obi-Wan,” Anakin murmurs. “I plan to sleep in tomorrow. I want you to fill me up again when the sun rises.”

“I will stay for as long as you wish.” Obi-Wan’s kisses are always so gentle in his hair, warm yet so soft they feel fleeting. 

—

When the skeletal trees begin to burgeon forth, cloaking the valley in a lively sapling green, Anakin knows it is high time he and his party leave. The townsfolk see him off in a teary farewell, to his surprise. The children of the town present him with a crown made of the first flowers of spring, and he hears Obi-Wan’s chuckle in a soft breeze.

The returning trip is much shorter, much more straightforward, passing by the riverland, back to the capital, and then straight into the citadel. He is greeted where he passes by, so welcomed he feels as though he is being tempted, tested; Lady Amidala even invites him to the wedding of her little brother. But other duties await at court, and Anakin has little choice but to graciously decline their hospitality.

The capital city soon appears in his line of sight, perched on its hilltop, a familiar view that Anakin has seen time and time again during his hunting trips with his father when he was but a boy. He smiles, glad to be home after all, but his smile doesn’t last quite so long. At the gateway to the citadel, where a flag bearing his house’s sigil drapes, another black flag hangs quietly at its side, small, unassuming save for its silver trimmings.

It is a flag of sorrow.

Anakin tears through the citadel in a blur, kicking at his steed’s flanks without mercy, heedless of Obi-Wan’s gentling voice in his ears. The flags peek out from every corner as though taunting him, nagging at him for his mistakes; they would have been flags of mourning had they not been trimmed in silver. He barely slows down by the time he pulls up at the castle moat.

“Guards, open up!” he bellows, his heart hammering in his throat. “I am the prince. Let down the drawbridge!”

They comply, far too slow for Anakin’s liking. He leaves his horse and storms into the main hall. “Where is my father?” There is not a single flag of sorrow inside the castle, yet the absence of such respect only burns him within all the more. “I demand to see my father. His illness… His illness has gone awry, hasn’t it?”

Servants bow to him quietly with apologies etched on their faces. “We are under orders not to answer your questions, my Prince.”

Anakin looks at them as they all but run away, incredulous. When he turns around, a knight has come up right behind him, armored to the neck and bearing the colors of House Palpatine.

“My Prince,” says the knight, giving Anakin only a shallow bow. “By the Regent’s order, I am to bring you to him as soon as you return.”

“The Regent?” Anakin’s brows furrow. “What has happened to my _father_? Who is the regent?”

“I am under orders not to answer your questions, my Prince.”

“What is this nonsense!” Anakin cries out, even as he follows the knight’s, climbing the flights of stairs that lead him up the main tower, where the royalty’s quarters are housed. “I am crown prince. Now that I’m here, I am the regent of the realm, no?”

The knight does not even look at him. Anakin clutches his storybook to his chest, mustering every last ounce of bravery to keep his head up.

The door to his father’s chamber creaks open, and Anakin rushes to bedside. “Father.” The king lies asleep, his breaths shallow, his face ashen, his eyelids the color of bruises, his hair thinned to a wisp. Anakin takes his limp, pallid hand in his own, and tears blur his eyes when he feels just how cold it is. “Father, I am so, so sorry.” He kisses his father’s weathered knuckles, hoping against hopes that his pulse would quicken and his eyes would flutter open just for a moment.

“My Prince.” The voice slinks up from behind him like a familiar shadow, and Anakin shivers as if doused with ice water. He turns around; sure enough, Lord Palpatine is there, his white hair greased back, his shoulders grotesquely broad with the new cut of his cape and doublet. “I am ever so pleased to welcome you back home.”

“Lord Advisor,” Anakin greets coldly. He does not have the patience to play this game now. “Why are you here? How long has my father—”

“I’m afraid you have not been most up to date, Anakin.” Palpatine smiles like a snake. “You may henceforth address me as Lord Regent.”

Anakin’s eyes widen. He feels as though he has been shot through the stomach. “I…” He straightens up, looking down into beady eyes. “You cannot claim—I will not tolerate this treatment!” 

“Anakin, you should not be raising your voice.” The lord advisor squeezes his arm, and Anakin yanks away. “You might disturb your father’s rest. Let us take these matters to the study, shall we?”

“Do not speak to me so familiarly.” Anakin feels ill. He walks on the edge of vertigo as they traverse the corridors. As soon as the study door closes behind them, he turns to the advisor. His knuckles are blanched for how tightly he grips the bag that holds his book.

“Lord Palpatine, I appreciate that you’ve taken over the work while I was gone and my father was ill. But I am His Grace’s only child and first in line for the throne, and I am of age. By all rights, I should assume regency while my father is unable to rule.”

“By all rights minus one,” Palpatine singsongs, and has the gall to send him a sympathetic look. The advisor opens a drawer and brings out a small scroll. He spread it out on the desk before Anakin’s eyes.

_By the word of the crown, by the light of the faith, I hereby declare Prince Anakin, son of mine, firstborn of House Skywalker, to be unsound of mind. He shall be in the care of the High Priest until he is cured of the obsession with an inanimate object. He shall remain under the tutelage of the Royal Council until he proves himself fit to inherit the crown once more._

The words are in his father’s loopy handwriting, not unlike his own; below is the thumbprint and wax of the crown. The order dates back to moons ago, prior to those dreadful few days during which Anakin has been confined in the cathedral tower. The words still send a dagger to his heart, even after his father had taken him out of there himself, in tenderness and understanding.

“This has been overruled by His Grace himself,” Anakin says, with the sternest voice he could muster. “It has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“My boy, I’m afraid it has quite a lot to do with the matter at hand,” Palpatine drawls, emphasizing on the last three words. “You see, your royal father has taken you out of the tower himself… but he has never nullified this decree. Not by any recorded means, at least.” Palpatine smiles. “So, _by rights_ , until the High Priest or the Head of the Royal Council - that is to say, I - name you ‘fit to inherit the crown’, you are unable to rule, be it as King or Regent.”

The world crumbles under his feet. Anakin can hardly speak for a good, long moment, gaping at Palpatine’s cool disposition. “That… That is impossible. This is outrageous. The people will not stand for this treachery!”

“Ah, ah, young prince.” Palpatine tuts. “I must warn you that senseless accusations such as the one you just made are a sign of aggressivity. Given that you are already considered _unsound of mind_ ”—he leans close, patting the bag under Anakin’s arm—“I suggest you mind your words. Now, wouldn’t you like to get some rest after your long travels?”

Anakin doesn’t speak a word as he’s escorted back to his own quarters. His chambers are cold; his personal servants all absent. All he finds is the leather-bound tome that he has left for Sors, alongside the pot of ink and the quill, its tip worn.

He opens it to find clumsily jot down lines. _They make me go back to the kitchens,_ Sors wrote. _But I write for the prince._ On another page, it reads: _The king is weak. No hold court today._ A few more pages document the same thing, _no court_ and _no court again_ . And then: _I watch them. They make food for the king. They put odd herbs._ The next page has smudges of blood. _I try to get herbs. They beat me._ On the very last filled page in the book, Sors scrawled: _Poison._

“Treason,” Anakin whispers to himself, angered and appalled. “It is Palpatine. You were right, Obi-Wan, I should have returned sooner.” Anakin rubs at his eyes. “But I will amend my mistakes. I will, I will write to the riverlands - they have men and money. Lady Amidala… will surely help me march on the castle—”

_Anakin, dear one._ Obi-Wan’s voice swathes him like a blanket on a chilly night. _You must not act in haste._ And perhaps that is what Anakin would have wanted, were he still the boyish prince of last year - a soft blanket, a lullaby, covering his eyes from the nightmare, telling him all is alright. But that child he is no more.

“I have wasted too much time,” Anakin cries. The words reverberate back to him angrily in the lonesome quiet of his chambers. “Palpatine should not be lounging on my father’s throne for another day!”

_Please, Anakin, my beloved. I say so not only for your sake, but that of your father, and your kingdom. Imagine how it would seem like to your subjects, if you call upon your bannermen to march on your own castle. It would be akin to usurpation._

“But I am the rightful heir to the crown.” Anakin’s eyes are beginning to well up with tears. “The only usurper here is Palpatine.”

_I know, Anakin. That is true; yet the truth is not always abundantly clear to everyone. You must unveil it with care. House Palpatine is wealthy and powerful, and as Lord Regent, Palpatine controls the army, amongst other things. If you plunge your kingdom into an inner war, all will be lost._

“All is already lost,” Anakin says, bitterly. “Palpatine has taken control. My father’s life is withering away. And you, Obi-Wan, you are telling me to idle. What am I to do?”

Warmth, shaped like Obi-Wan’s palms, covers Anakin’s hands. _I know you fear for your father’s life, Anakin, but I plead to you to listen to me. You have something he does not have. Your people love you. Palpatine’s servants only fear him. If you could convince them to disclose to you his treacherous plans, you will have the evidence you need to rightfully claim back your throne._

—

The winds turn abruptly cold for an early spring night. Wrapped in a cloak and a hood pulled over his head, with his book strapped to his back, a sword at his waist and a candle in hand, Anakin steals his way through the castle with the most quiet footsteps he could manage. The cohort of House Palpatine resides in the west wing. As Lord Palpatine has no immediate family and rather few relatives, even counting distant ones, most of those quarters are inhabited by servants of the House.

He makes quick work of finding the head steward’s rooms - there is a distinct neatness to it, and it is also the warmest chamber amongst all the servants’ quarters. A groggy old man answers the door. He pales at the very sight of Anakin, and struggles between a low bow and a motion that looks oddly like he wants to slam the door back in place. “My… My Prince. If I may ask, what brings you here so late?”

“I would like to discuss the Lord Regent with you.” The title is sour on his tongue, and yet he must force it out. The steward of House Palpatine seems ready to cower away. Anakin bites his lip and extends a hand, palm open. “I swear on my mother’s grave no harm will befall you. I am the prince, and you will have my protection.”

After what seems like an eon, Anakin finds himself invited in. He declines the offer for tea, and decides not to beat around the bush. “In the name of the crown, I ask you to tell me the truth: What orders has Lord Palpatine given you and the servants under your oversight?”

The man blinks rapidly, wringing his hands. “O-Orders, my Prince? There a-are many orders, every day, I d-don’t know if…”

“Direct orders, then.” Anakin leans forward. “What direct orders has he given you? Any servant that he has asked to speak to privately? Any secretive deeds that even you do not know of?”

“Well, ah… There is this one time, my Prince.” A full drop of sweat rolls down the steward’s temple. “Lord Palpatine… asked… for this serving maid. She was sent to work in the k-kitchens. I was never allowed to know what h-her order was.”

“Where can I find this girl?”

The kitchen girl’s quarters turn out to be near the kitchens in the east wing, all the way on the other side of the castle. Anakin bids the steward good night and leaves, his heart thumping with the rush of success and anxiousness alike. Even if he could manage to secure the girl and have her testify, it would still be rather difficult to proclaim Palpatine’s regency to be fraudulent, would it not? Even if the king has been poisoned by a servant of his house…

A sliver of light catches Anakin’s eyes, breaking his train of thoughts. It comes from a door at the far end of the corridor that cuts through the hallway he is passing through.

_Anakin,_ Obi-Wan warns, in his mind. _Dear one, don’t take unnecessary risks._

Anakin hushes him quietly, and tiptoes into the corridor.

The strip of light licks out from a single crack between great doors. Anakin crouches to the ground, holds his breath, and peeks through the crack. From his angle, he can’t quite see everything - or rather, everybody - in the room. But he makes out the purple of the Advisor’s cape, and the crimson of the High Priest’s robes.

“...strip him of his birthright, perhaps.” The High Priest’s voice and its distinct hiss carry across the room. “Or dispose of him in some way, for ease!”

“Unwise,” says Palpatine. “He is of more use if his title remains. I see him very much like a sigil on a doublet. An image of prestige, nice to look at. Better keep him grateful and powerless.”

The High Priest huffs. “You speak as if the little whelp is so easy to control. You don’t know the common folks like I do, Lord Advisor. Do you know what I hear in the streets? Or during the people’s prayer sessions? They say the Prince is sent from the skies to bless them. They say the Prince is betrothed to a deity.”

There is a long, deliberative pause. “The small folks say all sorts of nonsense,” Palpatine rejects. “Best not get yourself mired in the mice’s squawking, while you are dining with the eagle. Now if you would excuse me…” A chair scrapes against the floor. “...There is a mouse I must take care of.”

Palpatine’s eyes suddenly meet his own.

Anakin scrambles back from the door and bolts away. His heart thrums in his throat, and he has no choice but to reel his legs. The High Priest was talking about disposing of him. What _other_ nefarious things are they planning on doing? The cold night air is sharp as knives in his throat, and Anakin reels his legs, even as his knees want to give out. If he could reach the stables, he could ride his horse outside of the castle, at least. He has support in the citadel, in the entire kingdom. He will not be caged like a bird and propped up like a jester marionette, while the Advisor puppeteer him from behind the throne!

Anakin doesn’t know what he ran into when he suddenly sees stars. He falls backfirst to the ground, not even well enough on his feet to stagger. His head hurts and his vision blackens like he just slammed headlong into an iron door. His eyes are all of a sudden heavy with cloying sleep. He feels so addled that even Obi-Wan’s voice in his head seems far away, blurred, muffled. The last thing he glimpses is the shadow of a snowy-haired man in a purple cape, and Advisor Palpatine’s snake-like smile.

—

_Dear one._

_Dear one, wake up._

_Anakin, please, wake up._

Every inch of his body is tired. He yearns to drift back into the balmy, blissful blankness of dreamless sleep. But the voice of his beloved is soft and insistent in his head, even as it is strained with an edge of pain.

As Anakin comes to, sensations flare up. Restraints dig into his wrists when he tries to move them. His eyelids are heavier than lead, but he can see light dancing on the other side. When his eyes slide open, they are met with a purplish, crimson flame, twisting within the confines of a ceramic censer, set atop a table.

“Awake, my Prince?”

Anakin lets out a shuddering breath. He’s tied to a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles both lashed to it. 

“I would advise against trying to escape, my boy. The door is locked, and if you jump out that window, your neck will break before you reach the ground. This is the highest tower of the castle, after all.”

Anakin frowns deeply as he looks up. “Palpatine,” he grits. And then his eyes grow wide when he recognizes the object in Palpatine’s hand. He cannot help a small gasp, shivers running up his spine.

Palpatine smiles and steps closer, holding up Obi-Wan’s book as though to let Anakin see it better. The mother-of-pearl inlay on the book’s spine glints softly and sadly in the unnatural purple light. Fire licks up, singing the book’s corner, and Anakin bites back a pained “ _No!_ ”

“I see, I see.” The Advisor pulls back, and cradles the book at the crook of his elbow, in a show of mock-care. “Worry not, young Prince, I do not aim to destroy your treasure. Just as I did not extinguish your father entirely.” He lets out a content sigh. “Yet.”

Anakin doesn’t realize he has been panting until his breath wheezes into a near sob. _Obi-Wan_ , he pleads in his mind, but he can no longer feel his love, not even a twinge of his warmth. 

“Don’t even try, my boy. He can’t hear you now,” Palpatine says, sidestepping the censer, striding towards him. “I know what you are doing. You are trying to reach Obi-Wan Kenobi. I know everything you do, and everything you don’t. Do you want me to tell you something you do not know?”

Anakin can smell the Advisor’s perfume, sickeningly sweet. In the face of his silence, Palpatine simply continues.

“Everything that happened is entirely your fault, Anakin Skywalker.” Palpatine pauses, as if to twist the knife into that injury. “Yes, everything. If you didn’t cling to this book so much, if _only_ you would give it back to me the very first time I asked you to… Why, I wouldn’t have had to convince His Grace to send you to the cathedral tower. Our king wouldn’t have to grow skeptical of me, his loyal right hand. You wouldn’t have gone on a winter-long trip. And your father wouldn’t be dying in his bed right now. He would have lived a long, prosperous life, and so would you. But you cared for this more than you cared for your father. You are truly poisoned by this book, aren’t you? Did you fall in love, Anakin? Did you fall in love with Obi-Wan Kenobi and forget yourself and your duties?”

“Not true,” Anakin says, tremblingly, eyes blurred by tears. The bitter truth in those words cuts him deep, and he has no one to tell him otherwise. But somehow, his faith in Obi-Wan remains. “Obi-Wan has taught me more about duties and virtues than you _ever_ could, Palpatine.”

Palpatine’s eyes crinkle, almost kindly. “Ah, my boy, that look in your eyes - I know you are blaming me. Well, who am I to stand between you and your virtuous lover?” He leans down, tilting Anakin’s chin up with the spine of the book. “I will give you back your precious treasure. I will even give you an antidote for your father, if you behave. Wouldn’t you want all of that?”

Anakin stares into those terrible eyes, that seem to flash a lurid yellow every now and then. He almost, _almost_ nods, but snaps to his senses in time. “...And what do you want from me? The throne?”

Palpatine regards him, amused. “My poor boy, you are so extreme all the time. No, nothing so drastic. I mean to give you your role as regent of the realm; and someday I shall oversee your coronation, even. All I ask…” He crouches down, so that he’s below eye-level with Anakin. Anakin’s stomach churns. “...is for you to relinquish all power by a blood oath. You will wear the crown, and sit on the throne, and I will rule. I will be by your side”—Palpatine sets a hand on Anakin’s own, squeezing amicably—“just like I once was by your father’s.”

Anakin glares up. “A blood oath?” He gives a dry laugh. “And you have the gall to call me drastic,” he spits.

Palpatine’s eyes harden. “I see you still haven’t acknowledged the gravity of your situation. Allow me to explain in simpler terms.”

A loud _rip_ tears through the relative quiet between them. Anakin stares in horror as the first page of the book crumples in those wrinkly, corded fingers. He hasn’t caught a glimpse of the dedication before it burns to a crisp in the purple fire.

“I am presenting you with a choice, Anakin." Palpatine says, once more hovering the book over the fire. “I am giving you a chance to acquiesce in dignity. If you do not, I will destroy this book before your eyes. I will burn it to ashes. How would you like to hear your lover scream for a parting gift?”

A thousand voices scream in Anakin’s mind. He would never see Obi-Wan again, not even from the corner of his eyes, or in the reflection in his teacup. Never hear his bell-like laughter again, not even in the winds, in the rustling of leaves. Never again feel those hands on his skin, that scrape of beard against his cheek, those lips upon his lips, those warm caresses that set his body alight. Never again be held and beheld by one who touches him as though he is made of dawn and starlight. Never again bask in Obi-Wan’s bright shadow and feel his divine nature sings in his bones. He would never whisper to Obi-Wan words of love again; would never fulfill his promise to protect him, never mind to free him from his curse. Could he choose such a fate for his love and himself? Even for the sake of the kingdom?

_A ruler’s duty is to make difficult choices._ Words from what seems an age ago echo back in Anakin's mind, opening his tearful eyes. _I will always be by your side as you carry on._

Palpatine seems to have taken his silence as hesitation. “...That’s right, my young Prince. And then I will remain on the throne, just where I already am. Need I remind you that you are still unsound of mind in the eyes of the lords and the priests? You will fall into oblivion and die in disgrace, but not before your father does."

“You’re wrong,” Anakin whispers.

“Pardon?”

“You are wrong, Palpatine,” Anakin repeats, loud and clear. “I will not fall into oblivion. Not only because the throne is my birth right, but because my people love me, and I love my people. Loyalty inspired is stronger than obeisance imposed. You will rule through fear, and your rule will be brittle. That is why you have kept my father, and I, alive, and only dare to rule as regent. You know you cannot simply usurp the throne. You need me, Palpatine, and _you know it_ . If you draw royal blood, blood will shed in the kingdom wide. Nobody, not even the lords you swindled, not even your friend the High Priest you bribed, would be able to acknowledge your reign. _You_ will be the one to die in disgrace.” _And as for my lover, my darling crowned in flowers - he will want me to do the right thing. He will always live. He is a deity, a higher being, and he shall always_ be _, no matter the form he takes. I have no doubt that the price to pay is that he will forget me, but that is alright. I will cherish my memories of him._ Anakin holds his head high, even as tears burn his eyes. “Nobody loves you, Palpatine. A pretender is all you will ever be.”

Palpatine’s eyes bore holes into him. Anakin doesn’t look away. Drops after drops of tears roll down his cheeks. His voice does not waver.

“Do what you want, Palpatine. I will _never_ subject my people to your rule.”

The advisor whips around. He does not even put on a saccharine smile anymore, as he narrows his eyes at Anakin and all but flings the book into the purple fire.

The flames soar up to capture the book like a boa swallowing down its prey. The color shifts from crimson to a wild, bright violet, sparking, crackling, swaying as a beast provoked to madness. The pages begin to curl, ashes and embers dancing. Anakin barely sees anything through his tears, barely breathes, barely hears his own heart beat. Palpatine laughs.

His laughter dies as the flames knock the censer over and quickly spread across the wooden table, then the floor. The rug catches on fire, followed by the curtains; the straw-stuffed mattress in the corner bursts aflame. Violet fire shudders back to purple, whooshing and snapping its forked tongues towards the very man who had conjured it. Palpatine races towards the door, but he is no match for a force beyond nature. The fire engulfs him, the intensity of its roar only rivaled by Palpatine’s agonized screams, as his gold and his silver meld into his body and his flesh melts off his bones. The stench is as eye-wateringly hideous as his soul, old rot inside a scorched cadavre.

Through the smoke, Anakin watches Palpatine’s form writhe ablaze. He only lets his eyes fall shut when the fire reaches him. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Beyond the main gates of the castle, the drawbridge had been let down to welcome a most curious procession: white wagons, dyed in the fiery light of sunset and glimmering in the like diamond, rolling all on their own as though drawn by an invisible draught animal. Some wagons were loaded with sacks of grains, others with potted seedlings, and notably a few wagons piled with stacks after stacks of books. Leading the procession was a man clad in the colors of an autumn morning sky and crowned in blooming flowers._

The fire licks at his hand.

It doesn't hurt.

The flames wrap him up from head to toe like a warmed blanket of the softest kind, fluttering over his skin light as a feather, kissing him the way sunlight does. Ticklishly they caress him, even as the ropes burn away on his hands and ankles. Is it meant to be so painless? Anakin wonders if he is already on the other side. His head is still too light to discern it all.

A gentle knuckle brushes up his cheek. The stench is gone, replaced by the fragrance of spring, a scent so familiar it seizes Anakin’s heart. He lets his body be limp and allows himself to be gathered up, into strong arms he had only ever known in his dreams and phantasms. He buries his face into the crook of a neck, as he feels the nightly chill on his skin.

(If he weren’t Anakin; if he were, say, a mere servant, a mute little kitchen boy, he would be running out of his quarters alongside the rest of the castle’s residents at the scream of _Fire! Fire!_ He would be standing in the courtyard, neck craned up towards the stars, as the highest tower in the castle burns like a giant torch against the sky. He would see how a white silhouette emerges from the flames and floats down from the tower as lightly as a petal, snow-white robes billowing around. He would see fire flowers blooming in the night sky, raining flecks of light onto the onlookers. He would see how the grass turns golden and the wildflowers turn to jewels when the man in the snowy robes touches the ground. He would see just how tender the man is, when he kneels down and reveals who he has been carrying in his arms all this while. He would be in complete awe, as everybody else is, as the fire subsided all on its own.)

“Anakin, my love."

Anakin opens his eyes. Obi-Wan is crowned with what looks like pure starlight, his long robes letting off a slight glow in the night gloom. He is radiant, vivid, solid, _real_ , more so than Anakin has ever been allowed to see him. He is warm, even though the trimming of his cloak feels like the texture of snow. He is gentle, and smiling down at him, and Anakin wishes to be held by him forever.

“Obi-Wan.” Anakin reaches up, his hand tentatively sliding up Obi-Wan’s cheek, curving against his jaw. “Did you… save me?”

“No, my darling,” Obi-Wan whispers, and leans down to kiss his forehead. “You saved me. In integrity, you have undone corruption. You have burned away my chains and restored my true form. You freed me, dear one.”

As memories begin to return and pool in him, recognition scintillates, spreading warmly in his chest. Anakin wraps an arm around his betrothed, smiling so wide and bright his cheeks hurt. “Well, then,” he giggles faintly, “I deserve more than a peck to the forehead, don't I?”

Obi-Wan’s laughter is the sweetest sound he will ever hear. Obi-Wan’s lips part his own, equally as sweet, melting Anakin with a soft slide of the tongue. Anakin sinks into his embrace and, as he dozes off, he cannot think of any other place he would rather be.

—  
_  
Anakin stood on the high balcony of his quarters; from there, he could see the main gates of the castle and the path that led up to the drawbridge, which had been let down to welcome a most curious procession: white wagons, dyed in the fiery light of sunset and glimmering in the like diamond, rolling all on their own as though drawn by an invisible draught animal. Some wagons were loaded with sacks of grains, others with potted seedlings, and notably a few wagons piled with stacks after stacks of books. Leading the procession was a man clad in the colors of an autumn morning sky and crowned in blooming flowers. Anakin watched as they all disappeared through the gates._

_“My Prince,” a servant spoke. Anakin almost gave a start as he turned around, yanked out of his reverie. “His Grace summons you.”_

_Anticipation rushed through his veins, warming his chest like liquor as the prince leapt down the stairs two steps at a time and ran past Lord Advisor Palpatine in a blur. The throne room felt strangely quiet without the attending nobles on the sides; there was only his father on the throne, who nodded with kind eyes. “Ah, Anakin. There you are.” The seat beside him was achingly vacant: the Queen was bedridden, much too ill to receive a visitor. Even though it was a visitor entirely out of the ordinary…_

_“Good evening, my Prince. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I came in peace and amity.” The man’s voice was sonorous, yet utterly gentle, carrying across the hall. He carried himself with the grace of a crescent moon. He was handsome and kind-looking, dignified without being aloof; his eyes were a kaleidoscope of misty beryl and aquamarine and stars twinkled in them when he smiled. In his hands was a bouquet of the same flowers that crowned him. “May I offer you a token of admiration?”_

_Anakin realized he had been staring. He promptly blushed and nodded, manners forgotten as he extended his arms to take the bouquet. The king looked his way with a raised brow._

_“Lord Kenobi here has been telling me rather… fantastical tales that might be more suited for you than I, my child.”_

_“I am eight-and-ten, Father,” Anakin protested, although his love for fireside tales and epic ballads truly had never faltered. He turned his eyes back to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his heartbeat suddenly quickening. “Where did you come from, my lord? What sort of tales did you tell my father?”_

_“How fortunate it is that those two questions have one same answer.” Obi-Wan tilted his head, amusement in his voice. “I was only telling His Grace about my origins. I came from a land where the suns and the moons lived together in one same sky, and flowering trees would bear fruit under summer snow. While my consciousness traveled the world, my worldly form has lied asleep for thousands of years, until I felt a tug of the red string of fate.”_

_Anakin, himself, felt a tug of jealousy. Who was the fortunate being tied to Obi-Wan Kenobi by fate? “I see, Lord Kenobi. And the wagons you brought…”_

_“...are my offerings,” Obi-Wan finished. “My gratitude to your kingdom, for housing me on my journey.”_

_“Are you going to leave soon?” Anakin grimaced, and ventured on. “The realm has much to offer, Lord Kenobi.” And your tales. I’d like to hear your tales. “You should stay.”_

_Obi-Wan’s laughter was the sweetest sound he would ever hear. The man bowed deeply, nearly going down onto one knee. “Only if you would like me to, Prince Skywalker.”  
_  
—

When Anakin opens his eyes, he finds himself half-sitting, half-lying in an armchair, wrapped in white robes, softer than mink with a lingering sensation akin to the texture of snow. Only the palest rays of dawn reach into the bedchamber - and it isn’t his own.

He takes in a sharp breath, the memories of last night as well as of years ago still swirling in his mind. Immediately a gentle shadow drapes over him, and a cool hand rests on his feverish forehead before brushing his curls from his eyes.

“Anakin, you’re awake.” Fabric rustles as Obi-Wan crouches down before him, voice tinted with concern. “It’s alright, dear one. You’re safe. How are you feeling?” 

Anakin relaxes at once, cradling Obi-Wan’s hand against his own jaw. “I’m alright. I only…” He sits up a little straighter. “Where am I, Obi-Wan?”

“In your father’s chamber. I have been healing him. He is resting well, and he should recover in less than a day’s time.” Obi-Wan shifts back, gesturing towards the bed. Anakin’s eyes widen at the outline of his father there - the last time he was here, it was Palpatine who haunted the king’s unmoving figure. The expression on his face must have worried Obi-Wan. He places both hands on Anakin’s shoulders. “Forgive me for not putting you to bed, my Prince. I couldn’t bear leaving you to wake up alone while I tend to your father. Would you like to move to bed now?”

Anakin shakes his head. He opens his arms to Obi-Wan in a wordless beckon, and just as wordlessly, Obi-Wan complies, folding him into a warm embrace, kissing his hair.

“I dreamed, Obi-Wan,” Anakin whispers as he draws back. “I think... I found something I never knew I lost.”

Obi-Wan regards him like he holds the sun and the moon in his hands, even though between the two of them, Anakin is not the deity. He tucks Anakin’s hair back. “And what might that be?”

Anakin frames his beloved’s face with both hands. “You,” he says, drawing Obi-Wan close to kiss him on the forehead.

—

When the guards pry open the door to the highest room, they find blackened walls, a knocked over censer, and the remains of Sheev Palpatine, burnt to a crisp, leaving nothing behind save for a charred sternum that didn’t seem to go away. They bring the sternum back to present to the king, who now sits in his bed with pillows propped behind. At his bedside, Anakin watches Obi-Wan and the frown on his face as he examines the strange item.

“Find a mortar and pestle made of granite,” Obi-Wan instructs the servants, “Grind it with sage and coriander, and bury the resulting compound under a mulberry tree.”

The servants bow before they leave. The door creaks shut, leaving just the three of them in privacy once more.

“Perhaps you should see to it that they do their work properly,” the king hums, and smiles. “Lord Kenobi, I was mistaken about you. I was skeptical of the wrong person, and we mortals have paid dearly for that.” He sighs. While the high priest has been arrested, there is no telling who else might have banded with Palpatine.

“I hardly fault you, Your Grace.” Obi-Wan dips his head graciously. “Palpatine’s blood magic was able to subdue even me. Such a powerful collusion of evil was bound to deceive you. But”—he looks to Anakin with such fond eyes that Anakin would have pulled him in for a kiss, had they not been before his own father—“it is the crown prince who has delivered us all.”

Anakin smiles bashfully. He places his hand on his father’s. “And what matters is that you are well and safe now, Father. Don’t worry. From now on, we will have Obi-Wan by our side.”

“You mean by your side, my child.” The king’s eyes crinkle, his voice meaningful, and Anakin flushes. He opens his mouth to protest, but his father halts him. “I know you mean to be together. I no longer oppose your union, not in the slightest. It would be an honor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, to marry my son to a god.”

For the first time in so long, his father’s eyes shine with real, unburdened joy.

Anakin lets Obi-Wan lay him down in his bed that night. Satisfaction warms him to the fingertips as the mattress dips under Obi-Wan’s solid weight. He tucks himself to Obi-Wan’s chest, letting out a shuddering sigh.

“I still can hardly believe this,” Anakin says, his hands running down Obi-Wan’s arms before twining their fingers together. “Hardly believe I can finally touch you now… Or touch you again, rather.” He nuzzles against Obi-Wan’s collarbone. “It is so easy to fall in love with you. Once, twice, every day.”

Obi-Wan caresses his jaw and tilts his face up. “You don’t have to force yourself to remember, Anakin,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on the tip of Anakin’s nose. “We have all the time in the world to make new memories together.”

“We do.” Anakin nods, surging up just to smile against Obi-Wan’s mouth.

—  
_  
“...And where else have you gone to?” Anakin asked, flopping down onto the bed. It was admittedly unbecoming of a prince, moreso one his age, but he had already invited Obi-Wan into his bedchamber and little could be more unbecoming than that. Etiquettes were pointless, anyway. Obi-Wan had been here for nigh on half a year, steadily helping Queen Shmi recover - it would take years of Obi-Wan’s godly powers to truly heal her from her incurable disease - and filling the gardens with more trees day by day. Anakin felt like he had known him for longer than that._

_“Over the mountains and across the seas,” Obi-Wan answered, catching Anakin’s gaze, tacitly asking for permission before smoothing his curls back. Anakin wished Obi-Wan had just done it without asking. Anakin wished Obi-Wan would just touch him to his heart’s content. Anakin wished this magnificent man would lace fingers with his and press his hand into the mattress, would trace stories into his skin by means of rosy bruises, would drape Anakin in his gentle shadow from moonrise to sunrise until they were both out of breath. If Obi-Wan weren’t divine in nature, Anakin would have seized him and kept him here. He was a prince, he could do that._

_“...so by the time I—My Prince? Prince Anakin, are you alright?” Obi-Wan settled on the edge of the bed. Anakin blinked, flushing, realizing he’d missed nearly all of what Obi-Wan had said._

_“I’m alright.”_

_“My apologies if I have bored my Prince with such long-winded tales of mine.” Obi-Wan chuckled, and Anakin only flushed darker._

_“That’s not it.” He sat up, looking Obi-Wan in the eye. “You said you have been following a red string of fate. Do you know where it leads you? Answer me truly.”_

_A beat of silence. “I do, my Prince.”_

_Jealousy flared up once more, but Anakin steeled himself. He had to ask - he had to know. For weeks on end now a fire had simmered in his chest, as he dreaded Obi-Wan’s departure. “And where does it lead you?”_

_He could tell he had Obi-Wan’s unequivocal attention now. “It leads me here.”_

_Now Anakin was openly frowning, eyes narrowed. The person Obi-Wan Kenobi had been seeking after was a subject of his? How lucky, how damned lucky. “Who is it?” he demanded, forfeiting all decorum. “Tell me, Obi-Wan. Who is this person?”_

_Obi-Wan set a hand over his own, prying his blanched knuckles from the twisted folds of the blanket. He paused for a long moment, long enough for Anakin to grow impatient. “My Prince…”_

_“Just call me Anakin.” Anakin leaned in, breaths bated. “I want to know who you’re after. I want to know where you will be, when you leave. I just—I will miss you when you are gone, Obi-Wan, so I want—”_

_“Anakin.” Obi-Wan cupped his jaw. Anakin’s heart thumped in his chest like festival drums, at the way Obi-Wan uttered his name. “It’s you.” His eyes softened. It was the first time Anakin had ever seen Obi-Wan lose his composure and blush. “You are my fated one.”_

_He must have tipped Obi-Wan backwards. He didn’t know. All he knew was Obi-Wan’s body against his own, soft robes pooling around them; and Obi-Wan’s lips on his, and Obi-Wan’s hands on his waist, his hip, his thigh. Just like he wished._

_The candle was put out. Moonlight streamed into the room, outlining their shed clothing in silver. They slept in mingled warmth, and they did so again, and again, night after night, leaving Obi-Wan’s guest quarters in disuse. One of those days Obi-Wan asked for Anakin’s hand in marriage, and Anakin said yes with a kiss. One of those days Anakin asked Obi-Wan’s hand back in marriage, as though they weren’t already secretly betrothed, and they erupted in laughter and tumbled into bed all the same. One of those days, as they lied in bed and spoke to one another in hushed words, they promised they would be together for eternity._

_Until one day Anakin awoke alone, and no longer knew who Obi-Wan Kenobi was._

_All he had left was a nameless storybook waiting for him in the vaults._  
  
—

Anakin wakes up - alone.

He looks out the window of his quarters and sees the stars have emerged, tiny blinking lights of silver amidst the midnight blue. He turns over and sees a white fur robe on the bed beside him, and reaches out to touch it as if to assure himself that its presence is material. The texture is that of freshly fallen snow. He sits up in bed, the night air rather chill, and then stands, grabbing the fur robe and placing it about his shoulders. It smells of snow flowers. 

Leaving his quarters, still barefoot, Anakin traverses the many corridors of the vast castle, knowing not exactly where his feet will take him. He finds himself at the entrance to the great hall, and gently pushes one of the heavy doors inward, revealing what he knew he knew all along.

Obi-Wan is lounging on the King’s throne, one leg crossed over the other, clad only in a pair of thin trousers. Anakin’s first thought is that Obi-Wan must be freezing, but he knows better now. Obi-Wan is a god, a deity among mortals, and he could never be bothered by something as primordial as the chill of the night.

“Come to me, your Highness,” Obi-Wan says, and he beckons Anakin with one finger. Anakin obeys wordlessly, the pads of his feet almost silent against the red carpet that leads to the dais upon which the throne sits. Obi-Wan smiles down at him, and Anakin bows.

“My sweet Prince, whatever are you doing out and about clad in only a robe and sleep pants on this night? Surely you must have been looking for something.” Obi-Wan’s voice is the sweep of wind before the tide comes in, that breath of fresh air that makes Anakin aware of the fact that something is about to happen.

“I could ask the same of you, your Grace,” Anakin says playfully.

“Ah, yes, for I shall be a King and rule by your side,” Obi-Wan replies, a smile gracing his lips. “Come here, little King. Let me remind myself of how lucky I am.” Obi-Wan now has a glint in his eyes that Anakin has grown well accustomed to, and he shivers, not on account of the air at all.

“Here? Anyone could see us,” Anakin says, but he is already dropping the robe and moving to straddle Obi-Wan on the spacious throne. His legs on either side of Obi-Wan’s lap, and his arms around his neck, Anakin feels himself already breathing heavier as he tucks his face into the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and nuzzles against him, pushing his hips down to get some friction. Obi-Wan, who has remained silent up until now, finally speaks up.

“Yes, I want you here, and now, your Highness. I will tell you if anyone ventures near. Show me how much you want this, Anakin. Make yourself whine for me,” Obi-Wan purrs, and his hands now move to grip Anakin’s hips firmly, pushing him down farther against him, grinding their clothed cocks together in a semblance of what might be if only their clothes were removed.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Anakin gasps as he feels pressure and friction and everything lovely and perfect against him. He feels as if he’s a flower in its first bloom, and Obi-Wan has barely even touched him yet. And now Obi-Wan is toying with the waistband of his pants, his thumbs dipping below the line of the fabric to feel at more of Anakin’s tan skin.

Anakin opens his mouth to speak, but it feels as if it’s been flooded with sunlight suddenly for ever too brief a moment, and only a whimper comes out. His face is still buried in Obi-Wan’s neck, but he knows Obi-Wan is smiling.

“Pull back a little, Anakin. Let me look at you.” Anakin can hear as Obi-Wan’s voice rumbles in his chest, and he shudders, wanting Obi-Wan to speak more, wanting Obi-Wan to call him by his name, wanting Obi-Wan to call him by his title, _wanting_ Obi-Wan more than anything. Anakin pulls back and looks at Obi-Wan from where he sits in his lap, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself as he continues to roll his hips against Obi-Wan’s. 

“Beautiful,” Obi-Wan says as he reaches a hand out to rub against one of Anakin’s nipples. Anakin arches his back and feels himself leaking into the inside of his pants, so hard and ready to be touched, ready to be fucked, ready for anything Obi-Wan elects to bestow upon him. Obi-Wan is a cool ocean on a summer’s day and Anakin is ready to dive, ready to let the current come and pull him down, and he won’t surface for air, won’t struggle against the burning in his lungs. He’ll drown with Obi-Wan’s name on his lips, with the feel of Obi-Wan’s skin in his memory.

“Breathe, darling,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin realizes his head is growing foggy as the air wanes within his lungs. Obi-Wan’s hand against his chest is warm and calloused, and Anakin almost yelps when Obi-Wan pinches his nipple between his thumb and finger.

“It’s so good,” Anakin breathes out, unable to clearly voice just how amazing he feels. For how does one say that they feel like they’re being remade into something new by the simple touch of another’s hand? Anakin knows not, but as his hips move against Obi-Wan’s, he does know one thing: he _wants_. He _needs_. He needs Obi-Wan, and he will take whatever it is Obi-Wan is willing to give. He will take Obi-Wan’s offering and raise it up to the heavens in jubilation that Obi-Wan is his, that he is Obi-Wan’s, and that they’ve finally been reunited.

Anakin doesn’t know how long he moves against Obi-Wan in this way, but all too soon and not soon enough Obi-Wan is murmuring, “Do you want me to take you, your Highness? Do you want me to split you open on my cock right here? Do you want to take your pleasure from me and ride me until you’re crying? How does my future King want me?”

“I want... I want to kiss you first. It’s the first time we’ve been like this... I mean, really,” Anakin says, and though shyness is creeping down his spine like a shock of wet seaweed, he knows Obi-Wan would never refuse him.

Obi-Wan moves his hand to grip the back of Anakin’s neck, stilling his motions for a moment and bringing him closer. “As you wish, your Grace,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and then their lips are pressed together. Obi-Wan gently moves his lips against Anakin’s, not demanding anything, and Anakin’s heart flutters more than it had even with their more carnal activities. Their eyes closed, their breaths mingling, Anakin feels as if he’s the first ray of spring sunlight on a bank of snow. And he feels as if Obi-Wan is the clean water that washes away the remains of the dirt on his skin, pristine and pure and everything right with the world. 

Obi-Wan traces the seam of Anakin’s lips with his tongue, and Anakin gladly opens his mouth with a sigh. And Obi-Wan’s tongue is warm and wet as it moves against his, and Anakin has so much he wishes he could tell Obi-Wan. So much he wishes he could put into words and utter so clearly, clearly enough that Obi-Wan would be able to understand. As they pull away from each other for air, Obi-Wan cups Anakin’s cheek with his hand and smiles at him as if he is the beginning of everything good and right.

“Anakin... you are the sun. You are its rays as it blesses us with warmth. You are its blaze when it burns almost too hot on the skin, but oh so majestic. You are its love, the way it’s needed for all life to flourish. You are a sunbeam, dancing before my eyes, all too whimsical and yet very real. How did I ever happen upon you?” Obi-Wan calls Anakin the sun, yet the warmth of his voice seeps into Anakin’s veins like a substance far too potent to be named.

“Obi-Wan... I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me yours, right here, right now. Say you will.” Anakin’s voice wavers a little, not for lack of decision, but for the overwhelming desire he feels coursing through him.

“I thought you might say that, dear one. Fortunately I came prepared. Undress for me, my sweet Prince. Show me all of you,” Obi-Wan whispers, and Anakin all too eagerly climbs off the throne and peels off his sleep pants, leaving them discarded on the floor as he watches Obi-Wan remove something from the pocket of his pants and then remove the pants themselves. Obi-Wan’s cock is hard and leaking, not unlike Anakin’s, and Anakin finds himself licking his lips at the sight of it.

“Come here, Anakin. Let me prepare you for me,” Obi-Wan says, his voice salacious and wanting. Anakin complies and straddles him on the throne again. Obi-Wan reaches a hand around and prods a slick finger at Anakin’s entrance, and Anakin wiggles a bit to get more stimulation.

“Patience, Your _Highness_. Is that any way to act as a future ruler?” Obi-Wan’s tone is light and teasing, as downy feathers. 

“Well then, _Your_ Highness, perhaps you shouldn’t keep your future husband and King waiting,” Anakin quips, and he feels slight pressure as Obi-Wan’s finger slides inside him gently. The stretch is one he’s rather unaccustomed to, but it’s pleasant in a way, and so he sinks into it, feeling the warmth of Obi-Wan within him and grinding against it, wanting oh so much more. Obi-Wan waits until Anakin is used to the intrusion before slowly pushing another finger in, ever so carefully, and Anakin sobs, a broken, strangled thing wrought from pleasure, not pain.

“Obi-Wan... if... if I’m the sun then you’re the sky,” Anakin mumbles, nervous about making the wrong comparison but needing Obi-Wan to know exactly how dear he is to him. Obi-Wan is the only one he sees, the only one here, and everything feels so right.

“Of course, my sweet Prince. I am the sky which lives to hold you up, which will be closest to your rays for the rest of its existence. The sky which will be by your side, encouraging your warmth until the stars burn out and we are naught but fairytales told to the children of those who have never known magic.”

Anakin shudders atop Obi-Wan, and he thinks that perhaps there will be a time when he and his story become nothing but a tall tale, but he knows Obi-Wan will be with him til the end, and that is enough for him, and as Obi-Wan scissors his fingers within him, Anakin sighs and says, “I’ll always be with you, Obi-Wan. Always.” Obi-Wan pulls him a little closer, and he whispers into Anakin’s ear.

“Anakin, as I am now, you once were. As I am now, you will become. We will always be together, my love.” And with that, Obi-Wan curls his fingers within Anakin, and Anakin feels like a hot brand of pleasure has been placed upon him, the sensation of pure starlight shooting up his spine and through his veins, and he cries out into the vast space of the empty hall.

“You’re marvelous, Anakin. You’re everything I could ever want and more,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and he adds a third finger, and the stretch is deliciously foreign, delightfully excruciating, and Anakin wonders if he’ll be able to take Obi-Wan’s cock without coming immediately if this is how he feels with merely his fingers. Obi-Wan seems to sense his worry.

“Don’t worry, my dear Anakin, everything will be fine. You’ll take me as you did in your dreams, and you’ll do it perfectly.” Obi-Wan’s voice is kind, and it washes over Anakin like a warm expanse of water. 

“Okay, just be gentle,” Anakin says, and he knows in his heart he didn’t need to say it. For Obi-Wan has only ever treated him with the greatest of respect, and Obi-Wan cares for him without coddling him, allowing him to grow into what he was destined to become.

“I will treat you just as you deserve to be treated: with the utmost care,” Obi-Wan responds, and he curls his fingers once more, making Anakin jolt on top of him.

“Oh fuck, that’s so good. Fuck me now, I need it. I need your cock inside me,” Anakin whines, determined to know Obi-Wan in this way and knowing it will be nothing short of indescribable in its pleasure.

“Anything for you, my sweet Prince,” Obi-Wan replies, and he slides his fingers out of Anakin before grabbing more lubricant and slicking up his cock with it. He lines himself up with Anakin’s entrance and looks to Anakin before he speaks again.

“Go at your own pace, my darling. Make it feel good for you. Let the feeling of me within you represent a much deeper, much greater union than anything physical can be.” Obi-Wan uses one hand to hold Anakin’s hip, and Anakin begins to sink down. The first bit of the stretch is almost unbearable. It’s so much pressure. It’s simply almost too much for Anakin to handle, but even here, he wants _more_. He wants to hear the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice when he moans in pleasure. He wants to know what it’s like to know Obi-Wan in this way, the carnal and spiritual combined into one enigmatic bloom that nobody but the two of them will ever get to see. Obi-Wan watches Anakin intently as Anakin slowly guides himself downward.

“It’s so big…” Anakin says as he finally is sitting on Obi-Wan’s lap again. Obi-Wan’s cock inside him. “I, I need a moment,” Anakin continues, needing to adjust but wanting more of this oh so strongly. Obi-Wan strokes his hip softly.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Anakin. You’re taking me perfectly. We don’t have to go any further if you’d prefer. Just breathe; let yourself relax into the feeling. I’m so deep inside you, dear one. Can you feel how we’re connected?” Obi-Wan speaks softly, but Anakin feels how his words are charged, feels how an electric current runs through them like a tamed strike of lightning, ready whenever Anakin is to be unleashed.

Anakin feels sweat plastering his hair to his brow, and he experimentally moves upward marginally to try and gauge how it will feel when he begins really moving. As he does so, pleasure engulfs him, and he knows he needs more of this. Obi-Wan remains ever calm and watchful, not demanding anything from Anakin, not even requesting that he move more, go faster. Obi-Wan really is the sky, vast and powerful, but constant and loving as well. Anakin feels as if Obi-Wan is the first and last of his kind, the only one who could draw these feelings from Anakin and the only one who Anakin wants to be drawn to. He moves once more, and Obi-Wan shifts himself a bit.

“Ah! That’s so good! Obi-Wan, oh, Obi-Wan, _fuck_ , it’s amazing…” Anakin trails off as he begins to bounce up and down a little bit, feeling the edges between himself and Obi-Wan starting to blur. They’re leaving the realm of being separate entities and melding their souls into one. Obi-Wan doesn’t say a word for a moment, just watches Anakin as he moves. But then he speaks.

“Anakin, you are the loveliest thing I have ever had the privilege of setting eyes on. Watching you now, taking your pleasure... it’s all I could’ve wanted and more. Keep going, sweet Prince. Tell me how good this feels.” Obi-Wan’s voice wraps around him like the fur robe he had been wearing, and he thinks that if snow could have a warmth to it, that would be the closest thing to the way Obi-Wan sounds right now.

“Oh, it’s _amazing_ , Obi-Wan,” Anakin whines as he bounces up and down. “I’m so full, it’s so big, oh it’s so good. I don’t want it to end.” Anakin feels as though he’s been submerged in a silken ocean, floating around and hearing the noises of the world pass him by as fancies that he need never pay attention to.

Obi-Wan shifts a little, angling himself again so he brushes up against that spot inside Anakin, and it’s a lash of pleasure then courses through Anakin’s body like a beast running to a destination it does not yet know. He cries out, saying, “Fuck, do that again,” and his body feels ever so pliant, almost gooey, as if he’s made of a soft substance, no longer a rigid being bound to the confines of his mortal body.

“Did you like that, your Highness?” Obi-Wan says, his voice low and almost strained as Anakin moves above him, never stopping, intent on chasing his pleasure. 

“Yes, Obi-Wan, I need that again.” And Anakin keeps slowly moving up and down though his legs begin to strain and his muscles burn as if they’re aflame. He needs this, needs Obi-Wan to keep talking to him, to keep allowing him this moment. “Keep talking,” Anakin now demands, using a hand to steady himself, placing it on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, his blunt nails digging crescents into the pale flesh of Obi-Wan’s body.

“Keep talking? I suppose I could. But you’re so gorgeous above me, dear one. You’re a hot summer night, wild in your beauty and resplendent in your soul. I’ve seen the world many times over now, my sweet Prince, but never have I seen your like. Keep talking? Would you like to hear how perfectly you take my cock, how tight you are around me, and how your very presence is intoxication to me? Would you like to hear how slick you are, how well you move atop me, or would you like to hear how I am bound to you just as I have always been, how we’ll rule the Earth and skies and seas together, your hand in mine? Tell me, your Grace, what would you like to hear?” Obi-Wan pauses a moment now, waiting for Anakin’s response as Anakin feels himself burning, the harmless flames licking up his insides.

“Tell me I’m good,” Anakin says, but it comes out as more of a tumbled whimper than anything clear and coherent. Obi-Wan squeezes Anakin’s hips and leans forward a little before answering.

“Good? My darling, you are perfect. Oh, how you feel around me is the greatest pleasure I could have asked for. The way... oh, the way you smile at me, the way your brow furrows when you’re frustrated, the way your arms wrap around my neck when we’re entwined, oh Anakin, I need you. I need you more than I need the very air I breathe. You talk like a man but walk as a god. Oh, Anakin, you’re so good, so, so good. Absolutely beyond compare.” And with that, Obi-Wan’s face slips into an expression of utter pleasure, and Anakin moans at the thought that he could have been the one to make Obi-Wan feel this way.

“Ah—Anakin, is that what you needed?” Obi-Wan’s face now relaxes into pleasure, and his mouth hangs open a little bit as Anakin speeds up his movements. His eyelids flutter and his eyes fall shut as Anakin bounces on top of him, ignoring any muscle pain in his quest to bring himself and Obi-Wan pleasure. He feels Obi-Wan so deep inside him and tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. It’s just _so much_ all at once, so much inside him, so much around him, so much within his heart and mind that he feels filled to the point of bursting as he senses he’s growing closer to that precipice that Obi-Wan will push him over.

“Obi-Wan, you’re perfect,” Anakin says, mirroring Obi-Wan’s earlier words to him as he moves, his body feeling so _right_ and his soul in paradise. He watches and listens as Obi-Wan slowly but surely falls apart, focused in on the way his auburn hair has partially fallen in front of his face, the way his eyes open and then squeeze shut, as if he wants nothing more than to look at Anakin but the he’s so overcome with the sensations that he can’t quite keep himself from giving in to bliss.

“Dear one, oh, you’re absolutely lovely. You take my cock so well,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his voice all but a purr as he rubs Anakin’s hips and then squeezes hard again before reaching out to grab Anakin’s cock and start stroking, the motions sending pleasure shooting through Anakin.

“Oh! Oh fuck, _Obi-Wan_ , keep doing that… I’m, I’m getting close. I don’t want to come yet; I want you to come inside me, please.” Anakin is aware that desperation is lacing his voice, so he works as hard as he can to get Obi-Wan to that edge, moving his hips up and down faster, moaning Obi-Wan’s name into the hall, feeling so overwhelmed but knowing he can take more.

“Anakin, Anakin, keep going. Keep fucking yourself on me. Come on my cock like a good Prince.” Obi-Wan’s voice sounds very strained, but Anakin knows that to be a good thing, knows he’s pushing Obi-Wan to completely lose all control. Suddenly, Obi-Wan lets go of his cock and grips his hips with both his hands, lifting Anakin up and pushing him back down as fast as he can, and Anakin is so overcome by the change that he barely has time to register it. But when he does, he’s absolutely in rapture, crying out much louder than he knows he should into the hall and gripping Obi-Wan’s shoulders with both his hands as he feels himself careening towards his orgasm.

Obi-Wan pushes him down one more time, and brushes up against Anakin’s prostate, and with a final cry of “Obi-Wan!” Anakin is coming. He feels as though he’s floating through the clouds, being wrapped in softness while at the same time being set aflame inside. Obi-Wan fucks him through it and he feels as if he’s so much more sensitive in this moment than he ever has been in his entire life, the sensation of Obi-Wan’s cock moving in and out of him all the more poignant and the feeling of Obi-Wan’s hands on his hips like two fiery brands that he can’t help but lean into.

He keeps bouncing on Obi-Wan’s cock even after he comes, so sensitive, his body squirming both away and towards the stimulation, and Obi-Wan has devolved into panting and gasping as he looks at Anakin as if Anakin could bestow a mercy upon him that no other being could.

“Come for me, Obi-Wan,” Anakin coaxes, and then Obi-Wan’s hands are tightening on him again and Anakin feels a faint sensation of warmth within him. And he watches Obi-Wan the whole time. Watches how his face tenses and then relaxes. Watches the way his eyes fall shut again under the weight of his immense pleasure. And he watches the way Obi-Wan’s eyes open again. When they do, they contain a vastness of love and adoration that had only been present in Anakin’s dreams up until now. And Anakin sighs and leans forward into Obi-Wan’s chest, not caring about any mess, not caring that they’re still in the great hall. Not caring about anything but the two of them, still so entwined, sitting here on the throne from which they will one day rule.

—

They run back to Anakin’s quarters, both attempting to share Obi-Wan’s fur robe. They giggle softly, and the sound echoes throughout the corridors, though they know nobody will stop them at this hour. their bare feet tap against the stone of the floors, and Anakin is happy for the sound of two sets of feet instead of one. When they reach Anakin’s quarters, Obi-Wan slides out of the robe and opens the door.

“After you, my Prince,” Obi-Wan says, slightly teasingly, and Anakin chuckles.

“If you insist,” Anakin answers, and they walk into the room, Anakin shedding Obi-Wan’s robe and placing it carefully on the bed. He looks around the room and shivers slightly in the night air, but Obi-Wan is by his side, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and whispering to him.

“There will be time to stand in your quarters and look around, your Grace, but for now, we should get cleaned up.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The book of Obi-Wan Kenobi was no longer. In its place was a new, untitled tome, with illustrations drawn nearly in the same styles, containing all of the tales of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life plus one more: the story of how a lonely prince rescued a captive god, who rescued him in return. The story of how their union came to be. The story of them, as they lived happily ever after._

The spring sky arches high and vast and so very blue. Breezes gentle as a lover’s kiss rustle in the foliage, plucking petals from fruit trees in full bloom. The seedlings from years ago have grown into gangly rows of trees and lush climbing vines and beds of flowers, now beautifully smiling towards the sun. Light scatters on hydrangea and hyacinth, dapples on white chrysanthemum and pink peony and glitters on soft shades of coral and yellow and lilac and blue, caressing buds and burgeons alike. Where the birds sing above, the people murmur below, coming into harmony like a symphony in susurrus.

Rows after rows of benches have been laid out in the gardens of the palace, on white stones and pebbles and amidst all of this wondrous greenery. Long tables line the yard, covered in lace-trimmed loose-weave cloth; and along the tables are great ornate vats of mulberry wine and juice that have been left to cool in the cellar since last night, along with baskets of fresh breads and sweet rolls. At the far end of the stone path, a three-step tall dais has been raised. Above it is a wooden arch that looks as though it’s been erected from live branches, woven together into intricate shapes and covered in braided vines, both enchanting and enchanted. Tiny flowers bloom across the arch, alongside scintillating frost despite the warmth of the late spring morning.

The benches slowly begin to fill with guests: lords in their great capes, ladies in their great sleeves, all silk-lined underlayers and brocaded, embroidered robes. But the nobility is not the sole guests here. Children of the orphanages, wearing smiles much brighter than their plain shifts, barely able to form a line as they’re ushered by quiet, gentle-eyed caretakers into the royal palace. They take up nearly half the number of seats, giggling softly, some with a soft roll or a piece of bread in hand, only occasionally admonished by their caretakers. They are allowed to be the children they are, and no guard nor noble is allowed to raise a hand at them. This is by the Crown Prince’s order.

Anakin watches all of this from a chamber’s window. Not his own bedchamber, but one that has been put aside specifically for the purpose of dressing him in the appropriate manner, and - most of all - away from Obi-Wan’s sight.

_“Is it truly ill luck for a man to see his groom before the ceremony?”_ he had asked, curled up in Obi-Wan’s arms the night before, covered in loving bruises and robes that smelled like early spring snow, like his lover. _“You’ve seen me and you’ve seen all of me, Obi-Wan. Within and without my mind.”_

_“Darling,”_ Obi-Wan kissed his forehead then, and spoke with laughter in his voice. _“Perhaps it is for my own sake rather than that of tradition. I fear I might not be able to keep my hands away from you, when I see you in my colors.”_

Anakin sees how it is now, when his eyes meet his own reflection in the looking glass. Layers upon layers of white and ivory silk with hints of pale blue cascade down along his body, each of them sheer and soft, but together they cover him pristinely. The bodice is lace and something like ice-frost crystals - now invisible and now iridescent, the tints shifting as he moves. His sleeves flow long in much the same way, draping over his hands when he stills, billowing around his arms in the silhouette of wings when he moves. His outer robe is hemmed with patterned ribbons and embroidered in silver threads with the subtlest of imagery, and trimmed with what seems like fur at first glance, but feels like snow to the touch. Around his throat is yet more lacework, dainty as a daisy chain, with an opal for every pistil. His curls have been brushed till they shine like spun gold, done up and wrapped with a sky blue ribbon - the very one that Obi-Wan first tied into his hair. The veil over his face is simple and sheer, and delicate as filigree wings.

These are no traditional ceremonial robes - these are ceremonial robes fashioned especially for the occasion of their union, under Obi-Wan’s command and watchful eyes, tailored not to assure the propriety of traditions but to please his divine eyes.

“I could barely wait,” Anakin whispers to himself, running his finger along the line of his bare collarbones. In this blend of man-made and otherworldly materials, he feels not quite mortal himself, as befits the groom of a god. Behind him, his trusty servant, Sors, dressed in finer clothes than the usual doublet, smiles and signs at him in the mirror. _You don’t have to, my Prince. It is about time._

The palace that he has known all of his life feels like a different place now, in his absentminded eyes. He passes by the library, where he first discovered the nameless book - where Obi-Wan was once confined, where Anakin found his love once more. He passes by the throne room, the dining hall, the stairs that would lead to the highest watchtower. Even now it feels like a dream, like it was just yesterday that he woke up from a feverish haze, to the call of fate. His footsteps are small and the halls are great, and his heartbeat is even greater as trepidation magnifies everything he sees and hears tenfold.

_Are you nervous, my prince?_ signs the silent boy beside him, with this great knowing smile.

“I’m not,” says Anakin, stubborn as always. The gates to the gardens open, and it’s as if he is bathed in sunlight for the first time.

Ordinarily, the joining of royal spouses is to be done in the chapel of the palace, or perhaps the cathedral: hands twined under vaulted ceilings and before stained glass windows over marble altars, veils lifted under the eyes of the High Priest as vows are spoken and a solemn kiss is shared. But what is the officiation of a priest to the union of deities? From the first moment he thought of it, before Obi-Wan even spoke of it, Anakin already knew their nuptials should be celebrated under the open sky - on the spot where Obi-Wan landed that night, carrying him out of the fire as his chains burned away.

The stone path almost forms a sort of aisle, serpentine as it is. At the other end of this path, on the other wing of the palace, his husband-to-be is surely walking these same steps. They shall meet in the middle, on the dais, beneath the wooden arch. As the distance between them shrinks, so too does the guests’ chattering quiet, and quiet, until there is only birdsong and breezes. Anakin is close enough to the dais now to spot his father, sanguine and smiling, on the first bench row. He takes a deep breath, turning his eyes ahead. And there Obi-Wan is.

It kindles fire in his heart to see Obi-Wan dressed in darker colors - even more so when those colors are Anakin’s own: under-robe the color of tea, vest the color of wine. Misty silk covers his countenance like a veil of dusk and dawn, not quite dark but not quite sheer. Even then, Anakin knows a smile awaits beneath. With careful steps he ascends the dais; he holds his head high to behold his beloved. There is no priest, no mouthpiece, no representative of an unknown deity: their witness is the most innocent souls - of children, and the first flowers of spring.

They stand face to face. Obi-Wan holds up his hand, and Anakin fits his fingers into the valley of his palm.

“My Prince, my darling, the song of my heart.” His voice is sonorous yet oddly private. “The threads of our fates have braided into one another in more ways than one, by our own choosing. I hold your hand as you first held mine in a winter dream, as you led me into spring. I ask you now to lay eyes on me, and lead spring into my soul.”

Anakin almost shivers. The words bring back a hazy memory, images so fleeting they might have come from another life. He lets himself dwell on it, even as he reaches up. His fingertips graze skin as the veil is lifted, and Obi-Wan’s eyes peer at him, bluer than the sky, brighter than the stars. Anakin smiles.

“My Deity, my beloved, the poem of my soul.” He knows there is a slight waver in his voice, thin and not quite smooth as Obi-Wan’s. But the squeeze of Obi-Wan’s hand on his own encourages him on; and he blinks and breathes out and picks up his words again. “I have read every word of your tales and have wished for a quill to complete the pages as you complete me. I ask you now to lay eyes on me, and turn the page to my heart.”

So Obi-Wan does. His hand lingers at Anakin’s temple as he drapes the veil back, and Anakin’s heart beats faster, faster. He can’t help lowering his gaze for a moment, feeling more bashful than even the first time they met. When he looks up again, the approval in Obi-Wan’s eyes warms him to the core.

Solemnly, Sors the boy servant walks towards the dais, holding up a cushion towards them. Two identical crowns of flowers - the first flowers of spring - lie there in wait, soft pink and pale gold and light violet woven together in harmony. Dew, or rather, powdery snow, dusts the petals, sparkling in the sunlight.

“Before this enchanted gate and the sky and the soil, I swear this eternal oath to you, Anakin.” Obi-Wan gives his hand a gentle tug. Anakin takes it as a cue to step closer, and closer still until they are chest to chest. Sunlight catches in the kaleidoscopic grey-blue of his lover’s eyes, as Obi-Wan lifts a flower crown and places it atop Anakin’s head. “I love you. My heart has been yours since the moment our souls were conceived. I have loved you before the first harvest moon rises, and I shall love you after the last star burns out. Through storm or thunder, rain or wind, I shall remain yours, faithful and loyal, if you would accept me.”

“I do.” The two words reverberate within his chest, nearly as loud as the pulse in his ears - and yet they still come out too quiet compared to the ringing, singing joy that rushes through his veins. Above them, cottony clouds crowd the sky into but a small patch of blue. There is no darkness, no shadow, only a gentle respite from the bright, shining sun.

Anakin clears his voice lightly and, without thinking, leans down to touch his forehead to Obi-Wan’s in a manner entirely informal. Even then, Obi-Wan merely nuzzles him back, as if in reassurance. As if saying, _Worry not, my love. I am here, and you need only speak to me. Focus on me._ So Anakin draws back, and crowns Obi-Wan in flowers, and speaks.

“Before the eyes of the innocent and the sweet, I swear this eternal oath to you, Obi-Wan.” His eyes flutter shut for a moment; when they open, he smiles and lets himself speak as softly as he likes. “I love you. My soul saw yours from the very moment I laid my eyes on you. I know we are meant to be. Not even blood magic could erase how much I love you, then and now and forever. Nothing will ever force us apart again, be it fire or flood, because I am yours, all of me, if you would accept me.”

“I do.” Even Obi-Wan’s voice smarts into hoarseness this time.

A flash of light bursts overhead, from cloud to cloud. It appears like lightning, but it isn’t quite it; there is no thunderous rumbling to follow, no tree struck down by a galvanic current, nothing so brutal. The clouds clear, and then colors arch across the sky, softer than a strip of velvet ribbon, sweeter than the purest stained glass. At this magnificent show of nature’s beauty, a chorus of murmurs rustles through the guest benches, punctuated by gasps and giggles.

“It’s a rainbow!” One child exclaims.

“A rainbow. A bridge for divine ones.” Obi-Wan smiles. There is a certain meaning in his tone, in the choice of his words - and Anakin feels rather different. As if _divine ones_ is meant to include himself alongside his love. “I pronounce us husband and husband.”

There is no time to contemplate. There is no room for wonderment when his heart is swelling and soaring with indescribable rapture. Tears gather in Anakin’s eyes. “And I pronounce us husband and husband.”

Obi-Wan’s hand rests at the nape of his neck, secure and warm. The air is charged with both tenderness and desire, and a sort of relief that feels almost tentative, almost too careful. “May I now kiss my husband?”

“I would like my husband to kiss me,” Anakin replies. Without waiting, he tilts his head and meets Obi-Wan’s lips. The taste of spring nectar and the scent of fresh snow surrounds him; he sinks into it, sinks into the touch and the warmth and everything his husband will give him, unabashedly insatiable. He feels molten inside when Obi-Wan’s tongue slides back; he muffles his hums into Obi-Wan’s mouth and kisses him until he feels like his knees might give out.

They pull back from one another gently, gingerly, Anakin’s arms still secure around Obi-Wan’s neck, Obi-Wan’s hands still clasped tight at the small of Anakin’s back. Anakin can’t stop smiling so broad, so wide, so utterly overjoyed, and his husband’s smile looks very much the same.

“Well now, my sons,” the king speaks, rising up from his seat with a rather youth-like grin. “I believe a feast is in order for everyone; though you may or may not join us, distracted as you are.”

“Father,” Anakin mutters, while Obi-Wan only laughs softly against the crook of his neck. “We’re coming!”

So feast round the tables they do, as the bards begin a ballad in the background. They feast on roast and roe and down it all in sweet wine until they could feast no more; and they laugh and dance in circles while the children sing and clap in a ring around them. The air is merry, every smile jovial. Though eventually the crowd begins to thin as the guests take their leave, the dances last late into the evening. By then, Anakin’s feet have long begun to tire.

“We should retire, Obi-Wan,” he leans over to whisper into his husband’s ear. “I’d rather not use up all of my strength on dancing.”

Obi-Wan smiles like a crescent moon. “I’ve got you, my dear.” He sweeps Anakin off his feet, unannounced yet so graceful Anakin hardly feels taken off guard. He wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck, and what is left of the crowd parts to give way.

\---

The heavy wooden door thuds shut behind them as they enter Anakin’s quarters, and the sound makes Anakin jump slightly and turn to look behind him. Obi-Wan is smiling at him, and the sight makes Anakin feel as though he’s sitting on a hill on a hot summer night, gazing out over the hills and at a candlelit city below. Obi-Wan is by his side in an instant, wrapping his arms around his waist, gazing into his eyes as if seeking out the mysteries of the world, and touching their foreheads together as he speaks.

“Nervous, my sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan asks, and Anakin waits a moment before responding, allowing his mind to wander through passageways where he finds great anticipation merged with slight tension, a delicious mixture that has his head feeling light already.

“A little, Obi-Wan. I have lied with you before, but this is our _wedding night_. This is truly something special,” Anakin whispers, and Obi-Wan gazes into his eyes as if he were the one divine, the one who emerged from a sleep eons long.

“Do not be afraid, Anakin. This will be special because it is between the two of us, for you are my one true love, the answer to every mournful song my heart has sung. Let me take you, have you, be with you tonight, my dearest Prince and husband.” And Obi-Wan moves to take Anakin’s hands in his own, the warmth of his skin seeping through Anakin and immersing him in a feeling of comfort like the warmest of fur blankets.

“Yes, _take me_ ,” Anakin says, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hands so tight he fears he may be hurting him. But Obi-Wan just chuckles softly as he releases himself from Anakin’s grip gently.

“Turn around, dear one,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin complies, hearing the soft swish of his garments against the stone floor of his room. He feels Obi-Wan’s hands behind him, unfastening every clasp of his bodice, peeling him out of his clothes until they lie in a heap on the floor, Anakin nearly bare as Obi-Wan frees Anakin’s hair from its confines, until Anakin is standing with his back to Obi-Wan in nothing but a sheer white nightgown that reaches his mid thigh, a slit up the side of it, the fabric soft and silky as the first morning dew. Anakin turns back around to face Obi-Wan, and he sees Obi-Wan is looking him up and down as if he’s the most delectable delicacy in the entire universe.

“You are… ravishing, your Grace,” Obi-Wan says, and he reaches out to brush his fingertips across Anakin’s exposed collarbones before sliding his fingers under the athin strap of the gown. Obi-Wan draws nearer now, like a predator with no foul intent. “Allow me to ruin you tonight, your Highness.” A shiver dances down Anakin’s spine like the footsteps of tiny faeries and he feels his cock growing hard already. 

“Yes, Obi-Wan. I want you,” Anakin breathes, and he removes his shoes as Obi-Wan waits, holding him steady with a hand placed on his waist like an anchoring presence. As Anakin finishes, he stands to his full height and asks, “What do you want me to do?” with a hint of mischief in his tone wrapped in the promise of submission that will be as the sweetest wine.

“Lie on the bed, sweet Prince. I want to watch as you take your pleasure first,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin walks slowly to the bed. How had it escaped his notice that this bed is new, larger, and spread with snow white blankets as white as the snow Obi-Wan emerged from? His nervousness returns and he turns to look at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s very gaze reassures him, but Obi-Wan is never one to let his intentions go unsaid.

“It’s alright, dear one. I’m here with you,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin nods once before climbing on the bed and grabbing the vial of lubricant left on the table by the side of the bed. He spreads his legs as he settles, reclined up against the soft pillows. He slicks his fingers up as he watches Obi-Wan undress, unsure of exactly what Obi-Wan wants to see, and hikes up his nightgown so he has more room. When Obi-Wan has finished disrobing, Anakin watches as he climbs onto the foot of the bed and kneels, eye intent on him. Anakin presses a finger at his entrance, but Obi-Wan holds one hand up as a signal to stop.

“Did I do something wrong?” Anakin asks, now feeling worry crowd his senses that perhaps he’s ruined this before it has even truly begun. But Obi-Wan just shakes his head, a small smile gracing his handsome features.

“No, no, sweet Prince. But I want you to enjoy yourself. Go slowly. Tease yourself. The night is very young yet; we have time to spend,” Obi-Wan says, and the sound of his voice, the intensity of his gaze, makes heat pool in Anakin’s stomach as he begins to stroke his rim with one finger. The sensation is absolutely lovely, and as he experiments with pushing a little harder, he gasps, a soft, breathy thing that flies from between his lips and into the room as if it were made for only him and Obi-Wan to hear.

“That feels so good,” Anakin whispers, and he becomes fascinated with the feeling of it, with the feeling of toying with himself instead of rushing into things, the feeling of allowing himself to play. And then he looks at Obi-Wan again. And Obi-Wan looks as if he’s about to devour him alive, his gaze burning with the intensity of the sun at its highest peak, his eyes following the movements of Anakin’s fingers with rapt attention, as if he’s in a trance.

“You’re _perfect_ , Anakin. You’re doing wonderfully,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin feels his soul rise at the praise pouring from Obi-Wan’s lips, at the thought that he is being good, and being good for Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan thinks he’s _perfect_ , and that rids him of any remaining nervousness he may have felt in this moment, his fears of inadequacy rushing away like a cluster of shadows before the first rays of dawn.

“ _Obi-Wan_ ,” Anakin sighs as he slides one slick finger inside himself, already imagining what it will be like to have Obi-Wan’s cock inside him, pushing into him so _deep_. Obi-Wan watches enraptured as Anakin begins to slide his finger in and out of himself, Anakin’s pace slowly increasing as he grows more comfortable with himself. 

“Add another finger if you’d like, Anakin, I promise it will feel even better,” Obi-Wan says, and he starts stroking his cock slowly. The sight of it makes Anakin whimper, and he slides a second finger inside himself and begins spreading them apart, preparing himself for Obi-Wan.

“I want it, Obi-Wan. I want your cock inside me,” Anakin whines as he pumps his fingers in and out, tension building within him and waiting to snap like a string pulled all too taut. Obi-Wan gazes at him with understanding in his eyes.

“You’ll have whatever it is you wish, Anakin. I intend for us to enjoy ourselves tonight,” Obi-Wan says, and he crawls a little closer to Anakin so he can stroke Anakin’s thighs softly. Anakin pushes a little into the touch, eager to have any part of Obi-Wan that he can as he spreads his fingers apart inside himself.

“Obi-Wan, I’ll be ready for you soon,” Anakin whispers as he slides a third finger inside himself, feeling the stretch and adoring it, his body welcoming it like an old friend too long forgotten. And the whole time, Obi-Wan is soothing him through it, stroking his skin, looking at him as if he were the one who hung the stars in the sky. Anakin slides his fingers in and out of himself, not quite ready to give this part of the night up and yet wanting so much more.

“Are you alright, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks, a slight hint of worry casting itself over his face like a dark cloud. Anakin nods once.

“I’m okay, Obi-Wan. I just...would you talk to me?” Anakin asks, a bit shyly, not really indicating exactly what he means. But he knows Obi-Wan will know precisely what he means. And he’s correct, because no doubt or confusion crosses Obi-Wan’s face. Instead there is a confidence and an assuredness that makes Anakin’s very soul shiver in anticipation.

“Anakin, you are absolutely _sublime_. You are all that is good and right with the world. You are the freshest rainfall after the driest heat and you are the fresh green that sprouts after the cold of winter. You are _everything_ to me and even more than you can imagine. I want to show you that tonight,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin sighs as Obi-Wan reaches for the lubricant, slicking up his cock and then crawling on top of Anakin as Anakin still works his fingers in and out of himself. Obi-Wan smiles down at Anakin warmly as he reaches down to grip his wrist.

“Do you want me to stop?” Anakin asks, immediately halting his motions. 

“I want to give you more, your Highness,” Obi-Wan says, and he gently pulls Anakin’s hand away from himself, Anakin whimpering a little as his fingers are withdrawn. But Obi-Wan is with him, all sweet murmurings of “You’re perfect,” in his ear and soft touches as he lines himself up with Anakin’s entrance.

“I can take it. I’ve done it before,” Anakin says, and he’s proud of the confidence in his voice as Obi-Wan kisses his forehead. Then Obi-Wan is pushing the head of his cock into him and Anakin is arching into the touch, pushing his hips up against Obi-Wan to get more friction, just like in his marvelous dream. But now Obi-Wan is _here_ , with him, and he’s reaching a hand out to brush his fingers against one of Anakin’s nipples through the fabric of Anakin’s gown, the warmth of his hands seeping through to Anakin’s skin through the thin, soft fabric.

“Do you want more, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, and as Anakin looks up into Obi-Wan’s eyes, he sees a glint of playfulness there. Obi-Wan knows exactly what Anakin wants; he’s just playing at this like someone dangling a stray piece of yarn in front of a cat.

“ _Yes_ ,” Anakin hisses, and before he knows it, Obi-Wan is pushing farther, harder, until his cock is all the way inside him and Anakin is squirming underneath him, feeling so perfectly full and needy at the same time, the desire for even more rushing through his body like a heat wave over the summer grass, warmth dancing over every blade and almost scorching. Obi-Wan is slowly pulling almost all the way out of him now before thrusting back in, and Anakin wraps his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck, one of his hands threading its fingers through Obi-Wan’s silky hair as Obi-Wan begins thrusting into him at a measured pace.

“Anakin, my darling, you are lovely. You are everything anyone could want, and I cannot wait for you to find out what I plan on doing to you tonight,” Obi-Wan purrs, and Anakin quakes within himself at the praise, drinking it up as if it is the very water necessary for life itself. Curiosity blooms within him like a pure white rose streaked with the red of desire, and he opens his mouth to ask the question that’s whittling away at his sanity within his mind.

“What are you going to do to me tonight?” Anakin asks, not wanting to become too excited already but also knowing Obi-Wan has yet to disappoint. Obi-Wan grins down at him, salacious and wicked, and he leans down to whisper into Anakin’s ear as he keeps thrusting into him.

“Why, my sweet Prince, I plan on enjoying you as if I have never had the chance to before. First, I will take you like this on your back, then I think maybe I’ll fuck you from behind so I can grab your hips, or perhaps you could ride my cock again if you’d like, and I’m going to make you come for me and you will be crying out in pleasure, begging for more yet barely able to take what you have. And then, when you think you’re sated and still all too sensitive, I’m going to take you out onto your balcony and bend you over the railing and fuck you with your pretty legs perfectly spread for me, your body already so used but your soul wanting more, needing _so much more_.” And Obi-Wan pulls away slightly, but he does not even give Anakin time to answer. Instead, he presses their lips together.

Anakin sighs, opening his mouth and allowing Obi-Wan to slide his tongue inside. It’s so delightful, this warm, wet sensation of Obi-Wan exploring Anakin’s mouth with his tongue as he fucks into Anakin with his cock, his pace increasing in speed and his thrusts going so _deep_ , as if all he desires is to become one with Anakin in some way, in these all too short moments of physical intimacy as their tongues slide together and their bodies move as if they had been made for this. And perhaps they were, Anakin thinks. When they part for air, there is a warm flush to Obi-Wan’s cheeks and Anakin would like to speak of it, but instead he allows his jaw to fall slack and his mouth to remain open, breath leaving his mouth in ragged gasps as he pants, a whimper escaping him when Obi-Wan thrusts at just the perfect angle.

“I want…” Anakin whines, unable to even complete his sentence in the face of the pleasure he’s feeling, Obi-Wan filling him, stretching him so perfectly.

“What do you want, sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan asks, not stopping his motions for a moment. Anakin moans as Obi-Wan hits that perfect spot inside him, arching his back off the bed, prompting Obi-Wan to thrust into him even harder, leaving Anakin gasping again. But he retains enough coherence to voice his desires.

“I want, I want to ride your cock,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan’s eyes light up at the prospect, and before Anakin knows what’s happening, Obi-Wan is whispering in his ear, his lips brushing against Anakin’s skin.

“That’s what you want, little King? You want me to lie back so you can sit on my cock and bounce up and down until you come? Will that be enough to make you come? Maybe I’ll need to guide you, hm? My little ray of sunlight, I could not think of anything better,” Obi-Wan says, and then he pulls out of Anakin gently and lies on his back, reclining against the pillows. Anakin carefully straddles his hips, hiking up his gown and positioning himself over his cock as Obi-Wan holds it with one hand, rubbing the base gently. 

“Oh I want it; I just want to go slow,” Anakin says, and he sinks down until just the head of Obi-Wan’s cock is inside him. He gasps and trembles a little, feeling arousal spike through him like a white hot dagger. Obi-Wan uses one hand to hold him steady, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin of Anakin’s hip.

“You’re doing perfect, dear one. Don’t worry. Do you want me to talk you through it, tell you how good you’re being?” Obi-Wan asks, and the very prospect of that lights up Anakin’s brain like a wildfire and he nods furiously, a bit beyond words at the moment.

“You take my cock so well, Anakin, it’s absolutely perfect. You’re so warm around me, so tight, holding me inside you like we were born to fit together. When your eyes light up in pleasure I feel as if I’m gazing into the sky on a starry night, beholding the heavens in all their wonder. And when you move against me, pushing against me to take more of me, to feel more of me, it awakens something within me that has been asleep for eons, Anakin. You’re such a good Prince for me, dear one,” Obi-Wan says, and as he speaks, Anakin slowly sinks down onto his cock, his body accommodating it like Obi-Wan said it would, Anakin feeling so utterly complete as he grinds down against Obi-Wan’s hips.

“Obi-Wan...you’re so _deep_. You’re perfect, too. So perfect inside me, oh I can feel you so deep…” Anakin trails off, moving his hips in small circular motions to test out how things feel. When he moves a certain way, he’s rewarded by pleasure shocking its way up his spine and tingling through his fingertips. It’s not a wave, no, a wave would be far more expansive and all-consuming. This is a lightning strike, a pinprick of pleasure dancing throughout Anakin’s body as he throws his head back and moans.

“That’s it, dear one. Make yourself feel good,” Obi-Wan murmurs, now squeezing Anakin’s hips with both hands. “We need to make you come tonight, so let’s make sure you start feeling absolutely _heavenly_. Move up and down, Anakin. Fuck yourself on my cock and I’ll help guide you. You can play with your pretty cock in a little while, but not just yet. Let’s just enjoy this. Tell me how you’re feeling, if you can,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin is surprised there’s only a slight strain to his otherwise even voice, but he supposes gods are different than humans, so he tries to regulate his breathing and respond as evenly as he can.

“It’s so _big_ inside me; it feels so _good_. I want to move faster but I’m afraid I’ll come. I don’t want to come yet, Obi-Wan, I want to feel good for longer,” Anakin says, and then he sees how Obi-Wan is watching him, like he’s the very reason Obi-Wan even exists, and he feels confidence growing within him like a vine that grows around and of his insecurities and chokes them, and he feels as if it’s his turn to show off. So he moves a little faster and puts his hands over Obi-Wan’s on his hips as he begins to really enjoy himself.

“Oh, _Anakin_ , look at you. Riding me like nothing else in the world matters. How do you like that, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks, and Anakin lets out a high pitched moan as Obi-Wan’s cock brushes up against his prostate before smirking down at Obi-Wan and answering.

“I _love_ this, Obi-Wan. I love having you so deep inside me. You always take care of me; let me take care of you this time. Just lie back and let me make you feel good, and we’ll see about fucking me over the railing later,” Anakin purrs, and he takes one hand from where it sits on his hip and brings it to his chest, brushing his fingers against one of his nipples through the fabric of his hiked up gown. He throws his head back and keens, and he knows Obi-Wan is watching. Knows Obi-Wan’s breath is catching in his throat as he observes Anakin taking his pleasure like this.

“You’re so good, Anakin, so good for me,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and Anakin feels an idea light up within his mind, and then he’s smiling down at Obi-Wan as he moves still atop him.

“What if I turn around and ride you that way?” Anakin says, hearing his own voice and realizing it sounds far more sultry than he intended. “What if we do that so you can really watch me take your cock? I know you like that, Obi-Wan.” And Anakin knows he’s slightly slurring his words in his pleasure, knows he’s new to this, to taking charge in this way, but it’s coming naturally to him, as naturally as breathing, and as he looks down at Obi-Wan, he sees thunder. Not the thunder of foreboding or the thunder of anger, but the thunder that rolls over the plains of the earth and unleashes its power upon those below, the thunder that is all things ancient, majestic, and unstoppable. And As Obi-Wan pretends to consider Anakin’s idea while watching Anakin move on top of him, Anakin grins.

“I know you’re stalling. This feels better than you’re admitting and you don’t want it to stop, _Your Highness_ ,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan squeezes his hips and gently lifts him off of his cock without answering, though a smile is on his face.

“Climb up onto me just like you wanted to, dear one,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin turns around and straddles Obi-Wan’s hips again, facing away from him, before he sinks down on Obi-Wan’s cock in one fluid motion, and he sighs as it happens, feeling as if every nerve in his body has already been rubbed thin and raw, but Obi-Wan’s presence is soothing as it is igniting, brushing up against Anakin’s soul like an all too familiar presence, a feeling once intimately known and then lost...until now. And it makes Anakin want _more_ , makes him want to bathe in this feeling, to soak up to his neck and then slide under into the feeling of Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan’s hands on his hips, Obi-Wan’s voice behind him, murmuring, “ _Perfect_ ,” and Obi-Wan’s perfect soul that suffuses the entire experience with a warm glow of love, pure and simple. 

“It’s so good, Obi-Wan, oh I can feel _so much_ ,” Anakin says. “Do you like that?” and he grinds down against Obi-Wan as he bottoms out, feeling tension increase within his body and heat pool in his lower stomach. But it’s not quite enough. Not yet.

“I _love_ you, Anakin, and I adore everything you do,” Obi-Wan says, and he sounds a little more strained as he holds Anakin’s hips, guiding him slightly. But Anakin knows who’s in control here, and now. Anakin is taking his own pleasure while giving Obi-Wan pleasure, and the thought makes him feel powerful, able to give and take and enjoy himself as he does so. If only Obi-Wan knew what was going through his mind.

“Obi-Wan, I love taking care of you like you do for me…” Anakin breathes, hoping Obi-Wan will pick up on his meaning. And Obi-Wan, ever so sharp and alert, picks up the shards of Anakin’s thought and pieces them together, understanding Anakin better than anyone else ever has.

“I know you do, darling. You’re taking such good care of me now, riding me perfectly, your body fitting together with mine exquisitely. And our souls were meant to be entwined this way,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin is filled with a rush of sincerity as he moves, feeling Obi-Wan within him so intimately, the deep blue of Obi-Wan’s soul intertwining with the bright blue of his own and creating an ocean of perfect, pure desire predicated on intense love that swirls within Anakin and fills him with a need to feel _more_. So he reaches down under his sheer gown and starts stroking his cock as he moves up and down, feeling as though he’s about to burst.

“Obi-Wan, I want to come but I don’t want this to end,” Anakin whines, moving faster atop Obi-Wan, his muscles starting to burn deliciously as he works himself on Obi-Wan’s cock.

“You can come for me, dear one. Remember what I told you. I’m far from finished with you,” Obi-Wan asserts, and Anakin doesn’t say anything in response. He simply moves his hand faster, angles his hips more precisely, feeling the most delightful pleasures working in tandem within his body, twisting together to form something that scoops him up and throws him off the side of the cliff that he’s been gazing over this whole time. He feels sunlight pouring through his soul as he bottoms out one more time, as he moves his thumb across the head of his cock, gently brushing the slit, and comes over his fist in a few long spurts, his hole clenching down on Obi-Wan’s cock. He’s weightless and yet so very heavy in the best way, his body a vessel for his pleasure.

Anakin comes down slowly, with Obi-Wan rubbing his hips and murmuring, “You’re so perfect,” to him as Anakin trembles with the aftershocks and suddenly becomes _very_ aware of Obi-Wan’s hard cock still inside him. He lifts himself up and then comes back down experimentally, and he instantly feels so much _more_ than he had even a moment ago.

“ _Fuck_ , Obi-Wan I’m so sensitive. I want you to fuck me like you said you would,” Anakin says, and he gingerly lifts himself off of Obi-Wan before kneeling on the bed, facing him. Obi-Wan is already sitting up, is already starting to stand and extending a hand to Anakin.

“Shall we, my sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan says, a smile as bright as the most glorious star gracing his face. Anakin takes Obi-Wan’s hand and allows himself to be helped to standing, and Obi-Wan begins to lead him to the doors to Anakin’s private balcony. When they reach the doors, before Obi-Wan opens them, he murmurs something while touching the wood of the doors.

“What are you doing?” Anakin asks as Obi-Wan opens the heavy doors and leads him out onto the balcony.

“I needed to make sure I made it so nobody would see us, were they to wander beneath the balcony,” Obi-Wan says, and he leads Anakin over to the stone railing. “But now, we are safe, and I can have you under the starlight, just like the godling you were born to be.” And Obi-Wan positions himself behind Anakin, lining himself up and pausing a moment.

“I want it, Obi-Wan. Give yourself to me,” Anakin says, and he leans slightly over the railing as he grips the somewhat rough stone with his hands. He feels the coldness of the stone seep into his hands, and the juxtaposition of that sensation with that of Obi-Wan’s warmth leaning over him from behind is delicious, prompting Anakin to shiver. Obi-Wan gently slides his cock inside Anakin and leans over him, whispering in his ear.

“Are you cold, your Highness?” Obi-Wan asks. “I would hate for you to be uncomfortable.” And his voice is filled with the utmost care and love, overflowing like wine from a chalice.

“No, it’s _perfect_ , Obi-Wan. Take me,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan grips Anakin’s hips as he begins to thrust into him, Anakin pushed up against the railing of the balcony. And Anakin looks up and sees a clear starry night, the twinkling lights of the glittering stars hung there perhaps by Obi-Wan himself, the midnight blue holding them in its embrace, not a cloud in the silken expanse of what humans call the sky, and Anakin feels warmth blossom in his chest like a cloudless sunrise as he recalls the first time he dreamt of Obi-Wan.

“Enjoying yourself, my Prince?” Obi-Wan whispers in Anakin’s ear, and Anakin suddenly feels that in this moment, they are the only two people in the world, the only two breathing the sweet night air, the only two in this dreamy haze of pleasure, Obi-Wan’s presence seeping into the cracks of Anakin’s being like molten gold into a near-shattered pot. Obi-Wan’s presence is the wind that moves specks of dust in the sunny air, it’s the rush of feeling Anakin gets when he rides out into the countryside, the smell of grass thick in the air, it’s all at once a memory to recall and an experience yet to come, and Anakin is soaking in it, letting it swallow him whole as if nothing else mattered in the world, because nothing else does. And then Anakin realizes it’s been a few moments since he’s spoken.

“ _Yes_ , Obi-Wan. Keep going. I want it harder,” Anakin says, and he pushes himself back against Obi-Wan, their bodies coming closer together and Anakin groaning as he feels how deep inside him Obi-Wan’s cock is. So deep, so perfect, everything that Anakin could have asked for. But beneath that, beneath that carnal pleasure, there’s a sense of something far more. Something divine, something _sacred_ , something meant to be from the time of the very foundations of the earth. And as Obi-Wan grips Anakin’s hips just a small bit tighter, as he leans closer over his body, pushes him harder up against the railing of the balcony, Anakin feels as if his very being is being submerged in a pool of pure feeling, something that leaves his nerves frayed in its intensity. But Obi-Wan’s presence is there to hold Anakin through it, to guide him, and then to watch as Anakin guides both of them in turn. And Anakin feels that power surging through him again, so he reaches back with one hand and places it atop Obi-Wan’s before saying, “Fuck me _harder_. Make me take it.”

Anakin turns his head to look back at Obi-Wan now, placing both his hands back on the railing, and Obi-Wan has a devilish look in his gray-blue eyes, and there’s something in the way he adjusts his hands on Anakin’s hips pushing the fabric of the thin gown up a little further, the manner of his small movements, the way he inhales and it seems to catch in his throat slightly, that has Anakin wanting to hold his breath and wait to see exactly what’s going to happen, though he knows whatever Obi-Wan does to him will be _perfect_. He watches as Obi-Wan leans over him, feels as Obi-Wan threads the fingers of one hand through his tousled curls as if to hold him in place, and then Obi-Wan smiles.

Then all at once, Anakin is feeling white-hot pleasure shoot up his spine as Obi-Wan thrusts into him at the absolute _perfect_ angle, his movements harder, rougher than before, but never savage or with disregard for Anakin. Anakin cries out into the midnight air, and then slaps a hand over his mouth and quickly turns to look below them. But Obi-Wan is speaking from behind him now, saying, “Don’t worry, your Highness; nobody will be able to hear you. You can cry your pleasure to the high heavens if you wish.” And something is unleashed within Anakin at Obi-Wan’s words, something primal and carnal and lovely. So Anakin turns to look at Obi-Wan again with a snarl of a smile on his face, teeth practically bared.

“I want you to fuck me hard enough that I _scream_ , Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, and though his voice wavers a bit, the intent is there and Obi-Wan must think it’s enough, because he grins back at Anakin and tightens his grip in Anakin’s hair, his fingers tugging little points of pleasure from Anakin’s skull.

“It would be my pleasure, your Grace,” Obi-Wan says, and then he’s thrusting into Anakin fast and hard, every movement perfectly aimed. Anakin turns his head to face forward again, and he tries his best to push back against Obi-Wan as best as he can, reveling in the way Obi-Wan is doing his bidding, is bringing him pleasure at his request.

“Oh Obi-Wan that’s so good… _fuck_ , you feel so good inside me; I can’t take it, but don’t stop, don’t stop, _fuck_ …” Anakin babbles, commanding even in his haze. He feels Obi-Wan tugging lightly at his hair and he pulls his head forward a bit, making Obi-Wan’s grip tighten.

“You’re quite the little monarch tonight, aren’t you, Anakin?” Obi-Wan says, humor tinting a voice soaked in desire. Anakin smiles to himself before turning his head back to look at Obi-Wan.

“Grab my hips tighter so I can really feel it when you fuck into me,” Anakin instructs, and he feels delight flood through him like clean, holy water as Obi-Wan obeys without a word, smirking at Anakin the whole time, perhaps indicating that he is just as much enjoying this little game as Anakin is.

“Yes, your Highness, but shouldn’t you remember something?” Obi-Wan asks, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“What’s that?” Anakin asks, confusion starting to gather within his mind. Obi-Wan simply grips Anakin’s hips tightly and leans in to whisper to him.

“I will be King too, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and he thrusts into Anakin absolutely precisely, hitting his prostate and making Anakin squirm against the railing of the balcony as he cries out wordlessly into the night air.

“Take it, Anakin. You’re always so good for me. Show me how good you are when you take my cock,” Obi-Wan says, and all the love in the world is wrapped within his words, the world seeming more right than it ever has.

“Obi-Wan, I need more… please, please give me more,” Anakin says, feeling his prowess melt away in the face of the way Obi-Wan works against him, works with him, works within their little sphere of existence to create the perfect moment.

“I will give you whatever you wish, my sweet Prince. Touch your pretty cock for me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin is already reaching one hand down underneath his gown and between his legs to obey, his hand meeting the velvet flesh of his hard cock and stroking, pleasure pervading his body as Obi-Wan thrusts in and out of him at a steady rhythm. And now Anakin is feeling closer and closer to the edge as Obi-Wan continues, his body wrung out after one orgasm but so ready to come again.

“Obi-Wan, I’m going to _come_ ,” Anakin whines, and he can tell Obi-Wan is smiling behind him. Obi-Wan leans over him, his hands gripping Anakin’s hips so hard Anakin is sure he’ll leave behind finger-shaped bruises, but every bit of pleasure he’s felt this night is rushing together to create a crescendo that is flawless in its violence as Obi-Wan speaks.

“Come for me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, and suddenly Anakin is calling out Obi-Wan’s name to the starry skies, pushing back against him again, coming into his fist, warmth coating his fingers as the past, the present, and the future all converge in his mind and he thanks every deity in existence that Obi-Wan found him. He’s floating on a cloud of downy feathers, and he has to come down sometime, but for a few moments, he just trembles and allows Obi-Wan to hold him as the aftershocks gently wrack his body. But there is still more to do. Anakin smiles now, and begins fucking himself back onto Obi-Wan’s cock, sensitive though he is.

“ _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan breathes, and he thrusts to meet Anakin’s movements. Anakin grins to himself as he begins to speak.

“Kindness, Temperance, and Integrity. I had to learn those virtues, Obi-Wan. Now, I want you to learn something,” Anakin says, and he can hear that Obi-Wan’s breath is slightly hitching as if it’s caught on its way out of his throat.

“What’s that, sweet Prince?” Obi-Wan asks, and though his tone is slightly teasing, there is a strain to it, now. Anakin has him right where he wants him.

“Humility. Be humble now, and tell your King how good it feels to have your cock inside him,” Anakin says, and he feels Obi-Wan’s grip on his hips tighten again as Obi-Wan leans over Anakin again and whispers in his ear.g

“Perhaps I will, if only my King tells me how good it feels to have my cock inside him,” Obi-Wan says. “Both monarchs must learn humility, your Highness. But you feel absolutely _perfect_.” And as Obi-Wan finishes speaking, he lets out a small gasp, and Anakin is feeling so sensitive, so _much_ , but he’s never felt more like himself than in this moment.

“It feels amazing, Obi-Wan, your Highness,” Anakin whimpers, the title leaving his lips like a kiss bestowed upon the air. Obi-Wan reaches one hand up to caress Anakin’s throat, not applying any pressure, just touching the soft skin, and he gasps softly as he leans against Anakin, moving within him still.

“As I said, Anakin, you are _perfect_. I would give anything… you’re so good, Anakin. You feel so good around me,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and Anakin knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer, so he pushes back a little more deliberately, places one of his own hands atop Obi-Wan’s where Obi-Wan’s hand sits around his neck, letting Obi-Wan in in every manner possible, breathing him in and breathing him out, letting his presence absolutely engulf him, overwhelm him in its purity, in its otherness, as the moments flicker by and disappear like fireflies dying without a thought. This will haunt him forever, and what a pleasant thing, to be haunted by a memory so pleasant. 

“Come for me, Obi-Wan,” Anakin breathes, and then he hears Obi-Wan’s breath quicken behind him, hears him groan softly, something that sounds a great deal like Anakin’s name, and suddenly he’s thrusting harder and stilling within Anakin, and Anakin feels a faint sensation of warmth within him as Obi-Wan leans against him and murmurs something about Anakin being perfect.

Obi-Wan gingerly pulls out of Anakin and Anakin turns around to face him before throwing his arms about his neck, not caring about anything but the possibility of Obi-Wan’s touch. Obi-Wan wraps his arms around Anakin’s waist and touches their foreheads together.

“Oh, Anakin, my sweet Prince, how you have grown into a future King,” Obi-Wan says, and though Anakin knows he needs to get cleaned up, he wants to prolong this moment just a little bit longer, bask in the rays of this afterglow for but a few seconds more. 

“Obi-Wan, how you have helped me to grow into a future King,” Anakin responds, and they laugh softly, their breath fanning over each other’s faces as they share oxygen, their voices soft and their grip tight around each other. And Anakin remembers when Obi-Wan was just a perfect hallucination, just a pretty dream, and then he realizes he was never just that. Obi-Wan has _always_ really been with him.

\---

“Mmmm…” Anakin opens his eyes slowly to see his private quarters, and he wonders what day it might be. He sits up slowly, realizing he’s completely undressed, though when he looks to his right, he sees what looks like formal attire for two people and a small silky white gown that’s definitely not clean all lying on the stone floor. Then he looks to his left, and he sees the most handsome man he’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. A god himself couldn’t be more delightful. 

And then Anakin remembers. He remembers _everything_. He quickly lies back down and leans in to kiss Obi-Wan chastely, his lips lingering against Obi-Wan’s for just a few seconds. He pulls away and watches as Obi-Wan slowly scrunches up his face and opens his eyes, a bleary expression on his face. But Anakin is far too excited to wait for him to fully awaken. He reaches out to stroke Obi-Wan’s cheek and feels his body already anticipating Obi-Wan’s touch.

“Obi-Wan, we’re married,” Anakin says, and he giggles quietly in the soft light of morning. Obi-Wan smiles at him.

“So we are, my sweet Prince. And what would you have your husband do, as his first task on the first day of our union?” Obi-Wan asks, no sarcasm in his voice.

“Hmmm...can we go out onto the balcony and watch the sun rising?” Anakin asks, and as soon as the words leave his lips, Obi-Wan is sitting up and climbing out of bed, grabbing his fur robe and handing it to Anakin, who also climbs out of bed and wraps the robe around himself. Obi-Wan dresses in simple breeches and a shirt, and he extends his hand to Anakin. Anakin smiles a little shyly, and then feels silly, but he takes the offered hand and allows Obi-Wan to lead him out to the balcony, where they stand beside each other and look out at the sky, which Anakin believes must be the _perfect_ shade of blue. He turns to look at Obi-Wan and finds Obi-Wan already looking at him, his gaze suffused with absolute love and devotion.

“What’s on your mind, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks.

“Old books, willow trees, dreams, baths, high towers, charity, fiery rooms, weddings...a journey, I suppose,” Anakin says, and he smiles softly at Obi-Wan, grateful that such a perilous journey has finally led him here.

“Was it a good journey?” Obi-Wan asks, drawing closer to Anakin and wrapping an arm around his waist. Anakin nods.

“A very good journey. In fact, I think it’s one that deserves to be written. Do you believe I could be a writer, Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks, somewhat teasingly.

“Anakin, I believe any story penned by you would captivate even the most coldhearted of creatures. Let us begin today,” Obi-Wan says, and he tightens his grip on Anakin’s waist, pulling him in for a kiss as the sun rises, gold and shining and right and brilliant. As they break apart, Anakin sees Obi-Wan has tears welling up in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Anakin asks, now slightly concerned, but any of that concern is shattered by Obi-Wan’s bright laughter that escapes from him at Anakin’s question.

“No, Anakin, nothing is wrong,” Obi-Wan says. “For the first time in hundreds of years, everything is precisely right.”

—  
_  
The book of Obi-Wan Kenobi was no longer. In its place was a new one, a story drafted then penned by the young King Anakin himself shortly after his coronation. The tome, untitled, was displayed in a glass case in the heart of the castle’s book vault. Although Anakin Skywalker was prince no longer and the book had been passed down from generation to generation, most people still knew of it, affectionately, as The Prince’s Storybook._

_It was bound in nearly the same manner, with illustrations drawn nearly in the same styles, containing all of the tales of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life plus one more: the story of how a lonely prince rescued a captive god, who rescued him in return. The story of how their union came to be. The story of them, as they lived happily ever after.  
_


End file.
